What Evil Lurks
by The Red Fedora
Summary: Cape/Shadow crossover. An old villian returns, a new alliance is made and the world hangs in the balance. Just an ordinary day in Palm City...right?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the Cape or the Shadow…I'm only borrowing them for the story.

Author's note: This story is in response to _whitwolf06's_ challenge to write a Cape/Shadow crossover. Davis Cranston is my creation. Please ask if you would like to borrow him. Hope you enjoy the story.

_What evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows. _

_New York City 2011_

A tall hooded figure moved quietly down the dark alleyway. He paused as he reached a dead end. He turned slightly and cast a look back over his shoulder at the quiet street at the far end. His lips turned upward in a smirk as he turned back to the wall before him. His eyes narrowed as he studied the worn soot smudged bricks for a moment, then a gloved hand reached out and passed over a set of bricks at chest level. The sound of grinding wheels broke the still night air and the man stepped back as the ground where he had been standing a moment before sunk downward and morphed into a set of stairs. Before it where the wall had once stood was an open doorway. He glanced down the alleyway once more before moving forward through the door.

The room beyond the doorway was dark and still. The man paused for a moment and then reached out a hand and whispered a phrase under his breath. Instantly every lamp in the room leapt to life, washing it in a soft yellow glow. The man grinned and moved forward down an iron wrought spiral stair case to the floor below. The room was fairly large and furnished as if it belonged in a mansion and not in a hidden room at the end of alley. A thick burgundy carpet covered the floor, accented by an odd assortment of Persian rugs. The walls were lined with tall polished hardwood bookcases and oriental tapestries and a large stone fireplace which dominated the back wall of the room. A pair of plush arm chairs and a matching sofa were clustered before it. A large polished desk stood silent sentry on the opposite side of the room, the high back chair behind it empty.

The man paused at the bottom of the stairs as his eyes swept the display cases set into the book cases. Oriental daggers, old yellowing manuscripts and the odd curio were quickly dismissed as his eyes settled on a carved box resting in the center of the stone mantle. He moved forward quickly and reached for the box. It shimmered as his hand passed through it. He let out a low growl and spun around a deep mocking laugh filled the room.

_Did you really think it would be that easy? _a disembodied voice mocked.

More laughter filled the room. It seemed to be coming from every direction. The man closed his eyes and cleared his mind, focusing on the voice and the laughter.

_You are well trained, young one, but foolish if you think you can take the dagger from me._

The smirk returned as dark eyes opened. He raised a hand suddenly and jerked it in a circle. The air in the far corner of the room seemed to ripple and shimmer. As he watched, a shadowy figure in black appeared in the large black chair behind the desk. His face was shadowed beneath the rim of a large black slouch hat.

"You cannot stop me, old man." The man challenged. His voice lit with a soft accent.

The figure in the chair laughed harshly. "I had such high hopes for you, Gregor, but you have let the darkness consume your soul. I will not let you destroy the rest of the world because of your greed."

The man crossed his arms and smirked. "It is a little too late for that now. My plans are already in motion and you cannot stop them."

"I wouldn't underestimate me if I were you, Gregor." The dark figure stated coldly.

The smirk faded from the hooded man's lips. "Oh I don't intend to."

He flicked his right wrist toward the man behind the desk and waved his left in an arc toward the lamps which rimmed the room. The room exploded in a roar of flame and broken glass.

* * *

The hooded man paused at the end of the alley before turning onto the quiet street. He smirked as he tucked the box closer under his arm.

_Farewell, old friend._

He turned and headed out of the alley. One piece down.

Time to return to Palm City.


	2. Chapter 2

_Palm City 2011_

The night was still and silent. Not eerily so, but a peaceful restful silence as if for once all was right with the world. A soft cool breeze blew from the direction of the ocean, relieving the suffocating humidity that had wrapped the city like a wet blanket for the past few days. Most of the residents embraced the change and reveled in its peace, but to Orwell it felt as if it were the calm building before the storm.

She had tried to sleep but something would not let her. The city had been quiet over the past few days, too quiet in her opinion. Aside from a few incidents of petty theft and parking tickets, crime had been nearly nonexistent. Even Scales and his crew had been quiet. No merchandise had been moved either in or out of the docks. The news media attributed the peace to the Ark Corporation, but then again they had an interest in promoting the stories as they, along with an ever increasing amount of the city, were owned by a subsidiary of the Ark Corporation - not that the average person knew this. Nothing was sacred anymore. Even the networks were getting tighter and required newer and faster technology to crack. Nothing she could not handle – not yet at least.

Vince had mentioned feeling something as well, as if something big were coming. His patrols had been dull lately. It was as if the crime element of the city were laying low for some reason. He had turned to Max and his freaky circus friends, but they too had suddenly become more interested in their performances and less interested in their clandestine activities. As there was little for the Cape to do at the moment, Vince was taking the opportunity to rest and recover. The last few missions had taken a heavy toll on the self made superhero, both physically and mentally. He needed a break before he broke. Orwell secretly welcomed the break for his sake. He was beginning to grow on her, like an over protective older brother. As annoying as he could be, she was glad he was around. The weight of watching over the city was one that was best not born alone and he made it almost bearable.

A soft beeping drew Orwell's attention away from the city skyline beyond the window and to the bank of computer screens set back in the alcove of the small room. She loved her new studio and had taken great lengths to protect this one. It was expensive to have to replace her equipment every time a place was discovered, but so far she had been lucky. Her safety systems had assured that nothing would be left for the wrong person to find and trace back to her. Despite their best efforts to stop her, Orwell was still watching.

She crossed the room gracefully and slid into the desk chair. Her dark eyes swept the screens as the data zoomed by, then narrowed quizzically as they scanned one report in particular. The report in itself was not odd but its digital signature was strange. It was as if the one who had sent it did not want to be known. She pulled up the signature and tried to trace its track, but gave up after a several minutes and several hundred signal deflections later. Intrigued, she opened the file and jerked back in her seat suddenly, startled by the image on the screen.

It was a gold dagger, definitely of Oriental design, probably Tibetan if she remembered her historical art class correctly. But it was the hilt that had startled her. A delicately carved face with a type of ceremonial hat graced the top. Something about it felt evil, as if she could actually imagine it coming to life. A strange feeling of déjà vu swept through her as if she had seen this dagger before. She sighed heavily and rubbed her temple wearily. She needed more sleep.

Orwell shook off the feeling and scanned the description beneath the image. The dagger was missing. A large reward was offered for its return. The return address provided, like the digital signature, was untraceable. She checked the distribution list and paused. If there were others who had received the notice, they were unknown as well. There was no distribution list. Whoever was looking for the dagger was not going through the regular channels to do it. A chill ran through her as a sudden gust of cool air swept through the room. It was if someone had sent the message directly to her or at least to Orwell.

She pulled up her search engine on a second screen and ran a search on Tibet and carved daggers. While it ran she slid out of the chair and made her way over to the small kitchenette where a small pot of tea was cooling. She poured a cup of the fragrant brew into her favorite mug, then set the pot down and wrapped her long graceful fingers around the mug, taking comfort in the warmth. Her mind whirled as she tried to remember why the dagger seemed so familiar, but the reason remained elusive. A soft beep drew her back to the computer bank where the search engine had scrolled the top possibilities for the search she had entered. Her eyebrows furrowed as she scanned the top selection.

It was a headline taken from the early morning edition of the _Palm City Times_ and read "Rare Tibetan artifacts once thought to belong to Genghis Khan unearthed in deceased U.S. private collector's vault". According to the article, the collection was to begin its world tour in United States – in Palm City in particular – before making its way back to Mongolia. The boat carrying the collection and its private security was to arrive in two days, and then transferred to the _Palm City Metropolitan Museum of Art_ where the collection would then be under the added protection of the Ark Corporation for the duration of its stay.

Orwell did not believe in coincidences. It seemed as if she had been right about the calm before the storm. First an anonymous inquiry regarding a Tibetan dagger and now a previously unknown Tibetan collection had been unearthed. She called up the address attached to the dagger and sent an encrypted reply with the information regarding the collection then she sat back and retrieved her tea as she watched the data continue to scroll across the screens.

She could not shake the feeling that something big was coming, and she would bet anything that its first stop would be Palm City.

_Author's note: Thank you for the reviews! Glad you like the story so far. I figured it should start with Orwell as she would most likely be the first one to pick up on the fact that something was coming. This chapter kind of took a mind of its own. Hope you enjoyed it – more to come!_


	3. Chapter 3

_New York City _

The sky was just beginning to glow with the first light of dawn as a pair of tall ornate iron wrought gates opened to admit a sleek sliver Audi Spyder. The gates closed as the sports car continued up the long cobbled driveway toward a large white stone mansion surrounded by tall stately trees and well tended box hedges. The mansion towered four stories above the grounds, topped by a peaked roof of dark tiled slate that was studded with gabled windows. One lone ivy covered tower set into the far left wing of the mansion completed the affect. It looked as if it might have materialized out of the pages of a Victorian mystery novel. Despite the early hour, light spilled from nearly every window.

The car slid to a stop at the base of the stairs leading to a pair of tall doors. The doors opened, spilling light onto the white stone of the walkway as a tall dark haired man emerged from the car. He slung a bag over his shoulder and shut the car door before hurrying up the stairs to meet the figure silhouetted in the doorway. The figure morphed into a stately older man in a sharp tailored suit as he stepped aside to allow the younger man into the mansion.

"Welcome back, Mr. Cranston." A softly accented voice stated. "You've been expected."

"Thank you, Winston. How is he?" the man replied.

Before Winston could reply a second voice broke the early morning stillness. A silver haired woman in a white satin robe appeared at the second floor railing. She was tall and elegant and though her features had softened with age, it was obvious that she had been extremely beautiful in her youth. "Davis!"

Davis Cranston crossed the large foyer and hurried up the tall marble staircase set into the right side of the room. He dropped his bag onto the floor of the landing as he reached the top and wrapped his grandmother in a strong embrace. He held her for a long moment, sensing the worry and fear she was trying to hide. "How is he?" He asked.

Margo Cranston pulled away slowly and then raised her hands and gently framed her grandson's face. She studied his features with a soft smile. "You look so much like your grandfather." She said softly, and then she sighed. "He's lucky to be alive. If you hadn't installed the fire suppression system…" her voice trailed off as she blinked back the tears that shone in her green eyes. She composed herself with the air of a woman who had dealt with such situations often. Her eyes grew distant for a moment and the worry lines that creased her face relaxed. She smiled as her gaze focused on her grandson once more and she released him. "He's awake and he wants to see you."

A strong presence brushed his mind and he smiled as he sensed impatience. Relief flooded through him as he shook his head with a grin. "Better not keep him waiting then." He retrieved his bag and followed his grandmother as she led the way down a thickly carpeted hall and through a tall door at the far end. He paused just inside the doorway as she crossed to the bed, which dominated the large room, where his grandfather lay propped up against a nest of plush pillows. Blue eyes opened as she sat down on the edge of the bed beside him, and a soft smile creased the winkled face as she laid a gentle hand against his forehead. They seemed to carry on a conversation without words for a moment or two, which was very likely.

While they portrayed nothing more than a wealthy aging philanthropist and his wife to the outside world, Lamont and Margo Cranston were more than they seemed. His grandfather was in fact the crime fighter known only as _The Shadow_. He had the unique ability to manipulate and cloud the minds of those who sought to do evil, a talent he had learned long ago in the Orient as a young man. The underworld feared him, the police reluctantly accepted his help while secretly admiring him and those he had saved revered him. His grandmother had abilities of her own, though not as powerful. Margo could read the thoughts that lay on the surface of the minds of others. Because of their abilities, the connection between them was so strong that they had the ability to communicate telepathically, even when separated by long distances. She had been his secret weapon and silent partner for many, many years.

The only enemy _The Shadow_ could not defeat was time. The mind remained as strong and as powerful as ever, but the body had inevitably aged. His grandfather had accepted the fact that he would not be able to carry on forever. However corruption and evil continued to pollute the city and task the limits of the members of the police force who were still faithful to what their badges stood for….and so _The Shadow_ continued to fight. Many years later a rather interesting development had occurred. While their abilities had not been passed to their son, their grandson had begun to exhibit signs of his grandmother's talent for mind reading at the age of five. The staff had begun to report sweets missing from the kitchen but no one had seen the thief. Davis would mysteriously vanish when it was time for a bath or bed. No one thought it strange that the only two who seemed to be able to locate the little imp were his grandparents. It was not until after high school that Lamont had revealed his secret to his grandson and to his dread and delight, Davis had accepted the legacy offered to him and begun his training. Ten years later Davis officially assumed the role as _The Shadow_ while his grandfather continued to be the voice of the shadow among his network of informants and assist from behind the scenes from the Sanctum.

Davis turned his eyes toward the sunlight streaming through the tall windows on the far side of the room. He unconsciously slipped his mental shields in place as he pushed back the dark thoughts that had been lingering at the edge of his mind ever since he had felt his grandfather's strong presence waver. The Sanctum had been breached only once before tonight but that was long ago. The shields that surrounded it were impenetrable to all but those who shared _The Shadow_'s abilities. The previous interloper had also been a student of his grandfather's teacher, but the man was long dead, a victim of his own dark heart. Whoever had managed to breach the shields tonight was someone not to be underestimated.

A familiar presence brushed against his mind and Davis turned back to his grandfather as he lowered his shields. He met and held his gaze.

_Come over here, Davis, I have a story you need to hear._


	4. Chapter 4

_Palm City_

The rhythmic thud of leather against a hard bag greeted Orwell as she walked into the room. Her dark eyes brushed over the figure in the far back of the open room as she moved closer. She shuddered slightly as she remembered the dark bruises she had witnessed while looking for a tracking bug on his torso only a mere couple of weeks earlier. Vince seemed to be moving freely now as his gloved fists smoothly beat out a rhythm on the bag. As much as she admired her partner's dedication toward taking down Chess and regaining his family, she worried for his health. Whatever his friend Max had said must have sunk in for once in order to get Vince to willingly set aside the cape and take a much needed rest.

Vince paused and reached out with a gloved hand to still the bag as he noticed her. She quirked a grin and held out the box balanced on her hand. He raised an eyebrow as she set her packages down on the low table in the middle of the room.

"Beer _and _pizza. What's the occasion?" He asked as he resumed his punching.

"I thought you were going to take it easy." Orwell retorted as she sunk down into one of the chairs and flipped open the pizza box, flooding the air with the mouth watering scent of hot pepperoni and cheese. She snagged a piece and dropped it onto a paper plate. Her dark eyes flicked from the pizza back to Vince as he let out a chuckle and then sighed. He stepped away from the bag and turned to face her raising his arms in a gesture of surrender.

"I am taking it easy. It's just a light workout. Besides I'm nearly as good as new."

He twisted his torso from side to side as if to prove his point. Orwell smirked as he grimaced and lowered his hand to his side. He glared playfully at her as he pulled the gloves off and tossed them onto the end of the table before joining her. Orwell turned her attention to her pizza as he settled into the chair beside her and helped himself to a slice. She looked up in time to catch him staring at her thoughtfully as he chewed.

"What?"

His green eyes seemed to look straight through her and she wondered, not for the first time, if his circus friends had taught him how to read minds along with his bag of many tricks. Vince set his pizza down and reached across the table and snagged two of the beers. He twisted the top of off one and set it beside her plate.

"Are you alright? You look like you have something on your mind." He asked as he took a swig of his own beer.

Orwell leaned back in her chair and brushed the crumbs from her hands before reaching into her carry all bag to retrieve her virtual computer console. She moved her plate aside and set it on the table and activating it. As the screen shimmered into view above the table, she called up the image she had received the previous night. Vince's eyebrows shot to his hairline as the dagger appeared on the screen. He leaned forward and let out a low whistle. "Creepy."

Despite the seriousness of the matter, Orwell felt her lips quirk at his reaction. She zoomed into the image and quickly recounted the tale of image from the night before, including the anonymous sender and potential link to the collection which had mysteriously resurfaced after more than sixty years. Orwell ran her graceful fingers across the keyboard, and a series of images and articles replaced the image of the dagger on digital screen. "I thought the dagger looked familiar and I was right." Her dark eyes met Vince's questioning glance. "I have seen it, or at least a picture of it once before." She turned her attention back to the screen and a photo of a short older man with wild white hair and large coke bottle glasses wearing a plaid suit that had never been in fashion shimmered onto the screen.

Orwell studied the man quietly for a moment, before she continued. "Three years ago I was following a lead on a black market antiquities ring for a story I was working on. I was undercover at a conference at Palm City University where this man, Dr. Ian Rickman, was the key speaker. Dr. Rickman was one of the world's leading experts in ancient weapons. In his presentation he showed a picture of this dagger. It was part of a set, he believed, a legendary weapon of great power that had once belonged to the Mongol emperor Genghis Khan. At the time the weapon was thought have been lost." Orwell's voice grew quiet. "Someone must have believed otherwise. Dr. Rickman was found dead the next morning in his office, his research missing and cord marks on his throat. The police called it a robbery gone wrong but I felt it was something darker; someone deliberately killed him because of something he knew. I traced what truth I could but found nothing. I had all but forgotten about it until last night."

Her fingers flew across the keyboard and the image was replaced by the news articles she had retrieved from a digital copy of the _Palm City Times_. "It seems a little too coincidental to me that the dagger, which apparently does exist, was stolen on the same day that a collection of rare Tibetan artifacts had resurfaced."

Vince nodded. "And then there is the fact that the tour of this collection is going to start in Palm City. Why Palm City?"

Orwell shrugged lightly. "Your guess is as good as mine at this point but I don't believe in coincidences." She mused. "The collection is to arrive tomorrow night along with its private guard by boat and then move to the _Palm City Metropolitan Museum of Art_ where it be presented at an opening gala hosted by none other than the Ark Corporation."

She leaned back in her seat and turned her eyes to Vince. He was studying the screen before them intently. Finally he let out a slow breath and turned toward Orwell. "I don't believe in coincidences either, particularly where Peter Fleming is involved." He stated softly.

Orwell mouth quirked in a smirk. "I thought you might say that."

She reached over and pressed a button on the key board. A 3d map of the Palm City Dock's appeared on the screen, complete with the assigned docking berth of the ship and the most likely routes the security team would have to take to unload and move the collection.

"Feel like doing some recon?" She asked with a grin.

Vince matched her grin. "Always."

_Author's note: I loved the Goggles and Hicks episode of the Cape, especially the part when Max tells Vince that he is 'a circus act and not a superhero'. Ah poor Vince. I dropped the dates because I decided not to do flashbacks – so this is all in the present. Hope you are enjoying the story – thanks for hanging in there. _


	5. Chapter 5

_New York City_

Davis wrinkled his nose as the acrid smell of scorched carpet fibers and lamp oil wafted up from the darkened room below. As he moved down the spiral staircase into the Sanctum, he opened his mind to his surroundings, probing for anything that did not belong. He was alone, and yet he could sense a trace of an unfamiliar energy. It had been several hours since the attack and yet it still lingered like a faint irritant on the edges of his mind. He sensed dark, greed….and hate. His mind reviewed the story his grandfather had told him earlier. A story of a man who had been offered a chance at redemption and instead had chosen instead to let the darkness consume him….but unfortunately his choice had not been made known before he had learned enough of the art of mental manipulation to make him dangerous. It had been before Davis's time. The man had led _The Shadow_ on a chase across mainland Europe and into the frozen wastes of Siberia, leaving a wake of bodies in his trail. _The Shadow _had caught him and left him to rot in a Siberian prison where he had remained until recently when he escaped, leaving a bloody trail behind him.

The lantern in his hand cast eerie shadows across the room as Davis reached the bottom of the stairs. He studied the familiar room with a sad gaze as he took in the water and smoke damage done to the once beautiful room. The artifacts had been protected from the fire by a method his own design, a safety measure that pulled them away and to safety in a thick steel vault beneath the floor of the Sanctum in the event of a fire or unlikely breach of the defenses. Many of the articles, like the dagger, were more than they seemed and in the wrong hands were capable of unleashing great evil. It had been one of the first upgrades he had made to the Sanctum with his grandfather's blessing when he had taken over as _The Shadow_. In addition to the safety measures, each of the cases was also connected to a remote system which registered the content and the condition of each artifact and contained a small sensor that issued a warning if the artifact were removed from its resting place by anyone unauthorized to do so. It was the warning system that had first alerted Davis to the fact that something was amiss. His grandfather's weakened presence confirmed it.

Davis moved carefully across the room to the darkened fireplace. He paused before it. The unfamiliar energy lingered stronger here. He reached out and ran the tips of his fingers along the ledge that had held the carved box which contained the Phurba, a dagger with mythical powers that had once belonged to his grandfather's teacher, a Tibetan monk. He had only seen the dagger once, and once was enough. It had a strong energy to it that lingered even after its removal. His jaw tightened as anger surged through him as his thoughts turned back to his grandfather and the injuries he had sustained at the hands of the thief. Davis closed his eyes and forced his mind to let go of the anger; he had work to do and anger would only cloud his judgment and hinder his ability to stop the man who had done this. He took a step back from the fireplace and turned toward the scorched wall to the left of it and reached up to trigger a hidden panel. A book shelf slid open quietly revealing a narrow corridor behind it.

Davis stepped inside and closed the panel behind him. He moved down the passage to a heavy door at the end and pressed his hand to the sensor beside the door, another upgrade he had added….a security system that did not completely rely on mental abilities. Davis pushed the door open and stepped into a large room which hummed with the sound of technology and cooling systems. He turned off the lantern as the overhead lights washed the room in a soft white glow. While _The Shadow_ had used the best technology had to offer in his time, it had come a long way from the days when messages had been passed through mail slots and whisked by suction tubes to secret locations. These days all an operative had to do was to send a message to one of the many untraceable digital addresses Davis had designed to feed into a massive database system, which contained information regarding the network of agents as well as the databases worth of information his grandfather had collected over a lifetime of fighting crime. A digital map connected with the database could provide not only the location of the incident reported but also the location, time and name of the agent who reported the message.

Davis dropped down into the leather chair that sat in front of the main console and called it to life. He quickly pulled up the list of reports associated with inquiries he had sent out via his mobile work station shortly after receiving the alert that the dagger had been stolen. His eyes focused on one in particular. An address that did not belong to an agent but to a potential source he had been following with great interest ever since his network had picked up on the blog site. A mysterious character known only as Orwell, who seemed bound and determined to expose the corruption buried deep within Palm City, California, most of which appeared to be centered around a seemingly highly successful corporate security agency known as the Ark Corporation. Davis had used the site to as a source for data on several cases regarding agencies and corporations that had connections to corporations on his turf. The information was good and this Orwell seemed as if they would be a potential ally…..unfortunately these days allies were becoming few and far between. He had sent the inquiry to Orwell on a hunch and was pleasantly surprised to see that it had paid off.

Davis opened the data links and sat back in his chair as he reviewed the articles. The collection referenced in the first article had belonged to a friend of his grandfather's. A friend that had died of supposedly natural causes not too long ago and who's will had mysteriously brought his hidden collection into public view. As Davis scanned the second set of articles regarding Dr. Ian Rickman's theory and his untimely death, his eyes narrowed. The professor's theories were uncomfortably close to the truth. The Phurba had been originally part of a set and its mate had once been hidden among the collection that was currently on its way to Palm City. The two combined to create a legendary weapon of great power. In the wrong hands, it had the power to destroy the world. It was why the pieces had been separated once more by his grandfather long ago. They contained a power too great for one man to wield, a temptation nearly impossible to deny.

Davis downloaded the information to his mobile unit and closed the main terminal and pushed up out of the chair. He moved to the back of the room and slid his hand along a smooth wall panel. A soft click sounded and he pushed back the panel to reveal a long black carrying case. He removed it and looked inside before securing the lid and slinging it over his shoulder as he closed the panel and headed for the door. He had a destination and if all went well in the next twenty four hours, the Phurba would be back in his possession and Gregor Molotov would be back behind bars. If not...Davis set his jaw as he reached the street level and slid behind the wheel of the silver sports car. There was no second option. He had to retrieve the dagger and end the threat by any means necessary.

He called up a number on the car's communications console as it rumbled to life with a soft throaty purr.

"Ready the plane, destination Palm City, California."


	6. Chapter 6

_Palm City _

The docks were quiet…a little too quiet. A shadow shifted and a hooded figure eased closer to the edge of the top of a stack of large shipping container. A strong square jaw tightened as a pair of shadowed eyes swept seemingly deserted pilings once more. Instinct told him that something was not right and his instincts were seldom wrong, and so he watched and waited. From his position he could see the _Emperor's Star_ sitting silently in her berth. It had arrived right on schedule earlier that evening. Orwell's 'eyes' had followed as it was maneuvered into the docks by a pair of tug boats. With the exception of the initial inspections, no one had been seen entering or exiting the ship and its decks appeared to be empty. A patrol was out of the question as Orwell's network of sensors and cameras had detected a highly sophisticated security system lacing every entrance and exit of the large vessel. Whoever owned the cargo was going to great lengths to protect it.

Green eyes swept back to the empty docks. The best (and only) opening left would be to strike as the collection was transferred between the ship and the transport vans. Once in the armored vans, the collection would be untouchable. The Ark Corporation was putting extra care into maintaining their corporate image lately. Once the collection was under their control it would be under heavy guard until its departure from the city. According to Orwell's intel, the transport was scheduled to arrive sometime within the hour. There was nothing to do at the moment but wait.

Vince shifted back onto his heels restlessly. After days of endless nothing, it had been almost refreshing to get a chance to actually do something. The downtime had given him a lot of time to think….almost too much. Max's words had struck him more deeply than any physical blow….mostly because he knew his friend spoke the truth. He was just an ordinary man with an extraordinary accessory and a 'bag' of magic tricks….but then again how different was it really from the days when he faced the same evil with nothing more than a gun and a badge. He was becoming the very thing that he had once looked down on, a vigilante….masquerading as a superhero from a comic book….but then again maybe it wasn't so far fetched when super villains who looked like rejects from a Dick Tracy comic roamed the streets.

Initially The Cape had been a way to reconnect with his son, but lately he had to admit that it was slowly becoming a part of who he was. Each time he donned the mask and the cape he felt the weight of what it was beginning to stand for to those who were slowly becoming aware of his existence. _Hope_. What had begun as a crusade to regain his life and to destroy the man who had taken it from him was slowly becoming more…..and lately Vince had found himself wondering if he really wanted to cross the line from playing superhero to actually becoming the protector the city needed. As a cop he had taken an oath to serve and protect….but then again that man was dead, buried beneath the wreckage of a train and under the weight of false accusations. The cape brushed against him as a gust of wind blew in from the water and Vince shook himself from his thoughts and shoved them back into the deepest recesses of his mind. Now was no time for distraction. Vince shifted his position and scanned the docks once more as he let out a slow breath.

"Well this is fun." He muttered.

Soft laughter trickled over his com unit. "Weren't you a cop? I thought cops were used to sitting for hours doing nothing but staking things out."

Vince grinned. "Yeah well that was back when I had access to coffee…and donuts."

Orwell paused. "Cape, my sensors are picking up a weak heat signature in the northwest corner of the stack of containers opposite of your position. Can you see anything?"

Vince swept the area she indicated slowly, pausing on the far side of the docks for a moment as he thought he saw a flash of movement in the shadows. He let out a soft chuckle as a cat darted out and then disappeared around the corner of the adjacent container. "Cat."

He practically hear Orwell's frown as she replied. "Hmm. Must have been it….Look sharp, transport is in route toward your location, eta ten minutes."

"Finally." Vince muttered as he shifted deeper into the shadows. "Showtime."

* * *

Across the dock, a pair of cobalt blue eyes watched the caped figure with interest from beneath the brim of a black fedora. A shadow separated from the rest and a tall figure in a long dark leather trench coat slowly materialized out of the darkness. From what he had read, Gregor Molotov had once spent time traveling with a circus act. His attire of choice had been a hooded cape….like the one the figure wore. The Shadow projected his mind toward the figure on the roof opposite him. Confusion faded to curiosity as he failed to sense the darkness he had been expecting. Whoever the caped figure was, it was not the man he was looking for. A further sweep of the docks revealed little more than the sleepy thoughts of an ancient night watchman.

A wave of impatience drew his attention back to the caped figure. The man's attention seemed fixated on the ship berthed across the wide dock; the ship carrying the collection. The Shadow projected his mind further, attempting to get a fix on the thoughts of the man. It was difficult but not undoable, much like tuning a radio to a station on the edge of its limit.

_Cape. Cop. Donuts. _

His lips twitched upward in amusement. The man appeared to be speaking with someone over a com; his grin froze as a familiar name crossed the man's mind. _Orwell_. The next word made him pause.

_Heat signature._

The Shadow tipped his head downward, hiding it beneath the brim of his hat as the caped figure turned in his direction. He signed internally. It was child's play to manipulate a man's mind into believing what he wanted him to see, but sensors on the other hand…..they were harder to fool. His hat, clothes and coat were lined with a fabric designed to hide his body heat. The rest of his knowledge for dodging security systems had come from assorted knowledge provided by his network of agents. The most beneficial knowledge had come from a jewel thief he had saved from death at the hand of his traitorous partner.

The Shadow smirked as a cat sauntered out of the darkness. The cat paused, its ears pricked and eyes alert. The shadows along the bottom of the container rippled around the corner, the cat hot on its trail. His grin widened felt the caped figure's attention shift away from his hiding place. This man deserved further consideration in the future, but for right now The Shadow did not perceive him as a threat. He turned his head and gazed deeper into the shadows cast by the maze of containers lining the docks as a familiar presence brushed against his mind. He strengthened his mental shields and probed deeper into the darkness toward the man. Molotov was here, hidden in somewhere in the darkness…waiting.

The soft throaty purr of powerful engines broke the relative quiet of the docks as the transport vans began to arrive. The Shadow eased closer as five armored black SUVs came to a stop at the foot of the gangplank leading to the ship. As he watched, a pair of large and heavily armed men emerged from each of the vehicles and extended a perimeter. The ship came to life as a group of men began to move large wooden crates on trolleys down the gangplank toward the waiting vehicles. Everything moved along in a well oiled manner for a couple minutes…before the men on the outer perimeter began to show signs of a disturbance. They began to shout and move closer to the vehicles, their movements erratic and confused. The Shadow frowned as he felt Gregor's presence grow stronger….blue eyes flicked upward in time to catch a sight of a long narrow crate moving down the gangplank toward the dock, its carriers unaware of the commotion stirring up beneath them.

The Shadow smirked and moved forward.

_My turn._

_Author's note: In light of the recent episodes, this story is becoming slight AU – this story takes place after Goggles and Hicks but before The Linch. _


	7. Chapter 7

_Palm City_

The Cape dropped down from the containers and melted into the shadows at the edge of the open space as he watched the strange scene begin to unfurl before his eyes. He had seen some pretty weird things both on the force and since donning the cape…but this….this was unreal.

"Orwell, are you getting this?" He whispered incredulously.

The air surrounding them was still. So still that the flags which hung from the masts of the ship hung limp…and yet, as he watched, a huge dark and billowing bank of heavy fog began to creep over the dark waters of the bay toward the dock. Within seconds it had swallowed the SUVs and security team and everything in its path, blocking it from view. The panicked shouts and cries of the men on the docks were muffled and then silenced in the unnatural blanket of vapor.

"I just lost the feed on my cameras. What is going on?" Orwell's frazzled voice came over the com.

Before The Cape could reply, a chilling disembodied laughter filled the air.

* * *

The mocking laughter seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, and then without warning it went silent. Chaos reigned as the security team attempted to both get a lock on the threat and load the remaining crates as quickly as possible. A crate slipped from it precarious perch on a trolley and struck the pavement. It split open, spilling packing straw and bits of antique metal armor across the cement. A scuffle broke out between a guard and the workman unloading the crate as the guard attempted to strike the man with the butt of his riffle. The scuffle intensified as another workman rose to his comrade's defense and struck the guard with a broken piece of the crate. Another guard raised his weapon and prepared to fire on the workmen, but before he could an invisible force ripped the gun from his hand and sent it skittering into the fog. A dark figure appeared without warning and before the man could move, a fist materialized out of the fog and he fell to the pavement like a sack of rocks. The figure vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Near the end of the gang plank, away from the commotion, a shadow separated from the fog and a hooded figure materialized before the men carrying the long, narrow crate. The faces of the men morphed from disbelief to panic before falling slack of emotion as the paused as if frozen in place by an invisible force. Then they began to move away from the SUVs and toward the darkness beyond the edge of the dock.

The figure paused as a second wave of mocking laughter filled the night, this time closer than the last.

_You will not succeed, Molotov. Give up now._

He let out a roar of anger as a dark figure materialized out of the fog before him. The man's face was obscured by a full black mask beneath the black fedora, nearly giving the illusion that he had no face. The Shadow tipped his hat in a mock salute.

_Surprised? I warned you not to underestimate me. _

Molotov trembled with anger as he glared his opponent. "I killed you!"

_Obviously not. _

Molotov flicked his hand and a knife sailed through the air….and disappeared into the fog as The Shadow vanished. The air grew cold as if the temperature had plunged suddenly ten degrees.

_I want the dagger. _

Molotov spun as the voice whispered in his ear. His thoughts focused on the dagger briefly before he let out a growl and emptied his mind. He lashed out at the fog but struck empty air; then stumbled off balance and fell as an invisible force slammed into him. He rolled quickly to his feet and forced himself to calm and clear his mind. He projected his mind outward in an attempt to find the man hidden in the fog.

_Not bad. But I am better._ _Better look behind you._

Molotov spun to find nothing but fog behind him where the men with the crate had once stood. He let out a low growl and stretched out a hand. A path cleared through the fog, revealing the men and the crate nearly fifty feet away. He waved his hand and the men paused in mid step. Before he could turn them, the fog faded as quickly as it had appeared, revealing a dock full of very angry guards with very big guns….all pointing at him.

_Give up. Now._

Molotov glared into the darkness as the mocking laughter swept over him, fueling his anger. "This isn't over, Shadow. Not by a long shot." He hissed. He flicked his wrist, and with a flash of light and a puff of smoke, he vanished into thin air.

The security team sprung into motion, dividing into two units as half spread out in an attempt to find the man who had vanished as the rest scrambled to load the remainder of the crates into the armored SUVs. The Shadow eased silently away from the commotion, disappearing back into the darkness blanketing the area beyond the dock. He paused for a moment in the shadows as he forced his mind to slowly clear of the anger that had nearly overwhelmed him at Molotov's admission of guilt.

_I killed you._

It would have been all too easy for him to have crushed the man where he stood, but that was not the way The Shadow did things. If he gave in, he would be no better than the Molotov and everyone like them. He let out a slow controlled breath and then smirked as the memory of Molotov's disbelief and rage filtered through his mind. The night had been rather successful. His opponent had failed in his mission to obtain the sword and he had discovered that the dagger was in Palm City.

He would retrieve the dagger. He would complete his mission. And then justice would find Gregor Molotov.

* * *

From the shadows on the opposite side of the docks, The Cape watched as the fog vanished revealing a very angry security team and a hooded figure in a standoff, a lone box and two men in between them. Before the security team could apprehend the figure, the man vanished in a very familiar manner. A chill ran through his blood as realization struck him. The Cape sunk deeper into the shadows as he watched the security guards scramble load the last of the crates.

"I'm back up, what the heck just happened?" Orwell's voice called in his ear.

He remained silent as he watched the armored vehicles disappear into the night with a squeal of tires. The dock was silent once more…..as if the whole thing had never occurred.

"Cape? What's wrong?" Orwell demanded.

He sighed heavily and then easing back into the darkness, he turned back in the direction he had come.

"Kozmo's back." He stated.


	8. Chapter 8

Gregor Molotov was furious…beyond furious. Months of planning followed by the perfect execution of those plans all ruined in one night by an old enemy he thought he had destroyed. A surge of anger burned through him. He spun and slammed a fist into the wall beside him. Bits of plaster and drywall fell to the floor as he withdrew his fist and swiftly made his way across the floor of the sparsely decorated loft, ignoring the pain radiating up his arm. He paused before a large bookcase built into the wall and knelt, shoving aside a set of large books which lined the bottom shelf. He ran the fingertips of his uninjured hand along the bottom of the shelf above it and pressed into the center. A soft _snick_ sounded and a panel set into the center shelf opened downward to reveal a hidden drawer.

Molotov stood and reached into the drawer and removed a carved box. He set the box gently on an empty shelf and released the catch to the lid. His anger eased his eyes gazed upon the gold dagger nestled securely against a bed of black velvet. He let out a breath slowly through his nose as he closed the box and returned it to the drawer, watching with cold eyes as it slid back into the wall as quietly as it had emerged.

It had been a chance meeting that had begun this quest, a run in with an old acquaintance at a seedy little bar in San Francisco. Molotov had never liked the greasy little weasel, however then man had his usefulness, namely deep connections within the black market trade. A bottle of vodka and a hour later, the little man had taken him into his confidence and told him of a secret collection of antique weaponry he had recently learned of. Molotov had no interest in his stories, until the little man pulled up a set of pictures on his smart phone. One in particular had caught his interest. The dagger was unmistakable. Sensing his interest, the man enthusiastically wove his story of the priceless central piece of the collection which had once been part of a set. He lamented that it would have fetched a pretty penny if the set were whole. Another bottle of vodka bought him the name of the collector as well as his current location.

It had been child's play to work his way into the collector's home, but the man had been surprisingly resistant to his attempts to determine the collection was hidden. So he had turned to the man's lawyer. All it had taken was a little 'suggestion' and the weak minded man bowed to his will. Within forty eight hours, the collector was dead and the lawyer had presented a new will which released the collection into public view. While the legal matters dealing with the collection were dealt with, Molotov had turned his attention toward the second piece of the puzzle, a dagger which belonged to an old 'friend'.

Molotov glowered darkly as he yanked open the door to the freezer and removed a bottle of vodka, then slammed it shut and crossed the room to the living area. He slumped into a soft leather chair and took a hearty swig of the alcohol from the bottle, sighing as it burned a fiery path to his stomach. How had the Shadow survived the explosion? It did not make sense. He had seen the fire, watched the room burn and yet the man had stood before him less than an hour before, seemingly untouched. His cold eyes turned to stare out the large window set into the opposite side of the room beyond which the skyline of Palm City winked serenely beneath a moonless, cloudless sky the color of ink. He pulled another long drink from the bottle in his hand and slumped back against the soft leather of the chair.

He paused a moment to take in the luxury of his surroundings. The loft had belonged to a friend who now resided somewhere at the bottom of the bay. Since he had no more need of it, Molotov decided to make use of it. No one would be expecting to find him in an upscale part of town after all. He reached over and retrieved a crystal tumbler from a low table beside the chair and splashed a generous amount of vodka into the glass. He raised the glass in his hand and studied it as it winked a full spectrum of color beneath the soft lights of the room. Yes he could get use to this kind of life. His grin soured and then disappeared as his mind settled back to his current problem.

The Shadow had destroyed his chance to retrieve the sword….and now it was beyond his grasp. Molotov took slow sip from his glass and sank deeper into the chair as he mulled over the conundrum. By now the collection had been safely secluded away by the Ark Corporation until its premiere at the gala the following night. He paused and a twisted grin began to spread across his narrow mouth as the thought began to develop into a plan. Along with the time and location of the transfer, he had obtained an interesting bit of information earlier that night from a weak-minded, crooked dock master by the name of Scales. A bit of information that could buy him an ally…and more importantly, access to the museum vaults without the threat of security. If money did not work he was certain the quaint little story that went along with the sword would interest a man like the illusive Chess. Besides, there would be the added benefit of additional support should the local nuisance who stole his cape turn up.

The smile grew larger, contorting his face into a twisted sneer. He raised his glass in a mock toast toward the city skyline.

"As they say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend."


	9. Chapter 9

The flame on the wick of the ornate antique oil lamp flickered, casting a myriad of dancing shadows across the surface of the large mahogany desk on which it sat and lighting the face of the man who sat behind it. Max Malini tilted the wine glass in his large hand and studied the deep color of the burgundy liquid. He let out a deep sigh and melted back into the soft leather of his chair before taking a sip. He rolled the liquid over his tongue as his dark eyes settled on the ring which sat on the surface of his desk. Fire danced from the depths of the red-orange stone set deep into the ring's center as it caught the light from the lamp. Memories whispered from the dark recesses of his mind as he watched the play of color. Memories of a dark night long ago when death had looked him in straight in the eye before it had been thwarted by a mysterious man who had offered him a choice.

Max reached out and ran a finger over the cool surface of the stone. Thoughts of that night had faded in time. He had nearly forgotten about the ring, until tonight when Vince had dropped by with a warning that Kozmo had return and a story of a strange disturbance on the docks. The story had chilled him more than the knowledge of Kozmo the Unkillable's return. The man was a certifiable sociopath, one who had nearly destroyed Max's livelihood and his team when last they had met. But Kozmo was still just a man. A man who could be fought….a man who could be seen.

Max slipped the ring onto his right ring finger with a soft shiver as the cold metal slid over his coffee colored skin. The stone glowed warmly for a brief moment before fading. He raised his glass and took another sip of the soothing liquid. His gaze moved toward the orange flame of the lamp as it flickered beneath a soft draft from the silk draped entryway. The old ring master raised his glass in a mock toast as his trademark grin slid across his dark face.

"I wondered if you might turn up." His deep voice stated as he took a sip.

Soft laughter was his answer.

"Hello, Max. It's been a long time." A velvet voice replied.

Max set the glass down on the surface of his desk and folded his hands as his eyes focused on the darkness beyond the soft pool of light cast by the lamp. As he watched, a tall shadow separated from the rest and paused at the edge of the light.

"Five years." He replied.

The Shadow laughed softly. "You've been busy, Max." He accused lightly.

Max leaned forward, refusing to back down. "Is that what you came to speak to me about?"

The Shadow tipped his hat with a gloved hand in a mocking salute. "No. It's not." The hand lowered. "I need a little information regarding a man who calls himself The Cape."

Silence filled the room for a long moment as Max mulled over his answer. Finally he spoke. "What do you want with him?"

"I want to know if he is a liability or an asset." The deep voice stated.

Max sighed through his nose as he retrieved his wine glass and swirled the dark liquid gently. "He is a good man, Shadow. You don't need to bother with him."

The Shadow nodded slowly. "I sensed as much." He reached a gloved hand into his coat and tossed a fat envelop onto the surface of the desk. "A problem has emerged, one that I believe you might be able to assist me with."

Max reached for the envelop and flipped it open. His grin widened as he ran a finger across the large stack of bills nestled inside. "Tell me more."

* * *

The dingy streets swarmed with activity even at the hands on the clock moved steadily toward the early hours of the morning. Loud and grating music and strobe lights spilled out of dark doorways blocked by men the size of small mountains. Loud laughter sounded from a small group clustered near the edge of a curb near a taxi as one of them stumbled unsteadily on the pavement. Further along the dimly lit streets others plied darker trades, offering means of escape via chemical or company for the right price. A hooded figure wove a path deftly through the traffic of humanity that littered the streets before disappearing down a dark alleyway. He moved silently through a series of twists and turns before reaching a doorway set into the side of a large building. He paused a moment to look around him then opened the door and slipped silently inside.

A hand merged out of the shadows and caught the door before it could shut. The Shadow eased it open quietly and slipped through before shutting the door behind him. He moved quietly down the narrow hallway toward the light which spilled from large open doorway, keeping close to the shadows and out of the light. He had stumbled upon the man outside of Max Malini's tent and had followed him out of curiosity. The cape was gone and it is place an old hooded sweat shirt and jeans, but he was certain it was the man he had seen at the docks…the man known as The Cape.

Max's mind had revealed much about the man, more than he had been able to find through research on his own. Even Orwell's blog had limited information regarding the mysterious man who had appeared in Palm City only a short time ago. Perhaps that was due to a different reason though as it had appeared at the docks that the man knew Orwell. Perhaps Orwell was protecting him?

The Shadow moved closer to the edge of the doorway as the sound of low voices filled the air. He paused as his eyes settled on the pair seated at a table, a virtual computer consol hung above the surface of the table before them. The first was the man he had been following. The second figure made him pause. She was beautiful. A thin wisp of a girl with expensive taste, judging by her clothes, and fine delicate features shrouded by a curtain of long dark hair; her dark eyes spoke of great intelligence and her presence whispered strength beyond what the eye could perceive. He turned his eyes back toward the man as he pulled back his hood to reveal a head of light brown curls and a pair of piercing green eyes set into a strong face. As he watched, the man placed a hand on the girl's thin shoulder.

"I'm not going to let him hurt you." He said softly.

The girl slight smile lifted the corners of her mouth as her dark eyes flickered from the screen to the man's earnest face. She laid a small hand over his larger one and squeezed it gently. "I know, Vince."

Her hand moved from his to rub at her throat almost unconsciously as she turned her attention back to the screen. Vince's expression tightened in response to her actions as he released her shoulder and lowered his hand. The man's mind was a turbulent storm of thoughts and images. The Shadow sensed a strong feeling of protectiveness toward the girl and a strong feeling of hate for a man who had once nearly killed her.

"Orwell." Vince said softly.

The Shadow paused, his eyes moving back to the girl in surprise as she turned towards the man.

"It's late. Let me see you home." He stated firmly.

Orwell sighed softly but nodded. "Okay." She answered softly, as she shut down the computer and stood.

The Shadow watched as they moved past his hiding place and disappeared around the corner leading toward the door. So the girl was the elusive Orwell. A smile crossed the face hidden beneath the dark mask. Perhaps it was time to follow through on his plan to form an alliance with this Orwell. Something told him that it would be more interesting than he could imagine.


	10. Chapter 10

Some say that the night is darkest before the dawn. To the pessimist it represented the time when the world was swallowed by an oppressive curtain of darkness and hope seemed lost. To the optimist it represented the time when the darkness had reached its peak and would quickly lose its power to the warm rays of the sun.

Peter Fleming considered himself to be a realist. He had always been an early riser and cherished the pre dawn hours as time to work without interruption. He considered darkness an old friend, perhaps it was because the darkness of the world outside the glass and steel of his empire mirrored the darkness that shrouded his own soul. In these few hours between night and dawn, he felt normal, whole, and at peace. A peace that would disappear behind a façade as the harsh rays of the morning sun began to rise above the eastern horizon.

He turned away from the glass wall and moved over to the large glass desk set into the back half of the room. His usual croissant and espresso sat waiting for him beside the morning paper. Steam wisped from the espresso as he picked up the small cup and saucer and turned back to the view beyond the windows. Palm City. The pitiful little piece of sand swept beachfront which he had chosen as his test bed for launching his massive security corporation. His plan had been successful. He had convinced the citizens of the city that their police and justice systems were corrupt and were better off privatized, under his control. What better resume than a city without crime? He had manipulated them like a grand master until every last piece had been played and the city had fallen under his control. Like a chess game.

A small smile twisted at the corners of his thin aristocratic mouth as he sipped the coffee. He relished the bitter taste as his quick mind began to review his plans for the next step of the expansion of his growing empire. Gone were the days when work had to be sought after, when contracts were few and far between. Now kings and rulers came to his door seeking his help and throwing money at his feet. As long as his reputation remained intact, the world was his for the taking. The darkness in him relished at the chance to exercise power over more than just the weak citizens of Palm City. They had been fun for a little while, but he was quickly becoming bored, particularly of the inability of his men to capture and destroy the caped nuisance that had become a thorn in his side. He would see The Cape destroyed. He was only a man after all, a man playing superhero.

Fleming paused as he sensed a change in the room. He remained still for a moment, calmly finishing his coffee, before turning a moving back toward the desk. He settled into the large chair as his dark eyes swept the room discretely, lingering on the shadowed corners of the room. The Cape had succeeded in invading his sanctum once before. Since then he had added extra security measures. Not that he was afraid; no….it just would not do for the head of a multibillion dollar security corporation to be caught unawares on his own turf. It would be bad for business. He activated the tablet on the desk and crossed his legs as he leaned back nonchalantly into the chair. One hand moved to rest on a silk pajama clad knee…beneath a button set under the ledge of the desk.

"Are you planning to lurk in the dark all night, or did you have something you would like to say?" he remarked coolly as he scrolled through his itinerary for the day. He forced his face to remain devoid of emotion and his wiry frame to remain relaxed as a shadow separated from the darkness and moved closer.

"Hello, Chess." An accented voice mocked lightly.

A frown twitched at the edges of Fleming's mouth as he raised his eyes to meet the man standing before him. "I have no idea what you are talking about. I think it is time you leave, or if you wish I could have my security team show you the way out." A thin manicured finger reached up to rest on the cool surface of the button.

The man tipped his head with a low chuckle. "That won't be necessary. I have an offer for you, one that I believe you will find…interesting."

Fleming returned his gaze to the tablet and continued to scroll through the document on the screen. "I highly doubt it." He frowned slightly as his eyes rested on the events for that night. Oh, yes, the gala. He had forgotten about that. What a nuisance maintaining one's public image could be.

"I need your assistance in a small matter. All you need to do is lighten your security at the museum tonight."

Fleming raised his eyes sharply to find the man was now lounging on the couch set off to the side, closer to the windows. "Why ever would I do that?" he remarked dryly.

A flash of white teeth came from the shadows as the man grinned. "Because I can offer you something worth more than the reputation of your precious company."

Fleming's thin face pinched as he weighed his options. The man annoyed him greatly and a simple press of a button would rid him of the nuisance. However, the man showed guts and perhaps could provide a bit of relief from the boredom he had been recently plagued with. "What could you possibly offer me that I don't already have and what would be worth more to me than my company's reputation?"

The man's grin grew wider if possible as he leaned back into the couch and propped his feet up on the expensive glass coffee table before him. "What every man searches for but few ever find."

"And what is that, pray tell?" Fleming asked dryly.

"Immortality."


	11. Chapter 11

Orwell stared apprehensively at the image on the screen. She watched intently as the man seated on the park bench read a newspaper. The bill of his baseball cap shadowed his face from the security camera she had tapped into. Her eyes flicked from the screen to the clock mounted in the dashboard of the car and back. Ten minutes. She only had ten minutes remaining to figure out what she was walking into. She rubbed her forehead wearily and let out a soft sigh.

"Are you all right?" Vince's voice asked softly in her ear.

Her lips quirked a soft smile at the concern in her partner's voice as she continued to watch the man on the screen sip his coffee. "I'm fine." She answered, attempting to sound more reassured than she felt. Kozmo's return had unnerved her more than she was willing to admit. She knew she had little to fear as long as she stayed away from Trolley Park. After all, she had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had not been interested in her. He wanted the cape. He had no idea who she was. She had just been in the way.

Orwell rubbed her throat as she remembered the feel of the fabric cutting into her skin, slowly cutting off her air. The memories had returned in full force the night before, as had the nightmares. She had given up on sleep in the early hours of the morning and focused her mind and her computers on the puzzle before her in an attempt to figure out what Kozmo had been after. At least that had been her intention….before she had received another message from what she had dubbed the 'creepy dagger owner'. This one had thanked her for her assistance and asked if she would be willing to help a little more. Intrigued, she sent a reply requesting more information and was startled when the reply was nearly instantaneous. If she was willing to help, she was to go to Palm City Park at noon that day, where she would meet with a man in a blue baseball cap seated on a park bench on the north end of the pond. So here she was, five minute until noon, staking out the park in an attempt to get an clear image of the face of the man on the bench.

"You don't have to go through with this, you know." Vince stated. "It isn't like he knows who Orwell is."

Orwell bit her lip as the man raised his head slightly, exposing the lower half of his face. "This is our best lead. Our only lead." She replied as she willed the man to look into the camera.

"I'm just saying that I could meet with him." Vince argued.

A fond smile tweaked her lips at the concern evidenced in his voice. "And what if he recognizes you? You are supposed to be dead." She retorted softly. "I'll be fine. I've got my guardian angel watching out for me." She teased.

All humor dissolved as the man on the screen raised his head and looked straight at the camera. Her fingers flew over the touch screen as she captured an image of his face and activated the recognition software. She frowned as the man smirked before lowering his head once more, as if he knew she was watching. The computer beeped softly, drawing her attention back to the screen. A well shaped eyebrow arched in surprise. She shut the screen down and exited the car.

"Showtime."

* * *

Davis slipped his sunglasses on and leaned back against the well worn wood of the park bench. He was certain Orwell would be watching from the security camera feed. He had selected the bench with the knowledge of its location. It was of little risk to him if anyone else intercepted the feed. He had a valid reason for being in the city. He was a businessman after all, with a penthouse in the city. No one here had reason to suspect his dual identity as the Shadow had not yet surfaced in this part of the country before the previous night.

The smirk morphed into a smile as he watched a small group of children run across the field beside the pond after a soccer ball. Their carefree laughter and childish excitement washed against his mental shields like white noise against the ever present buzz of humanity that lingered in the background. One grew used to it after a while. He rarely noticed the noise these days, which was a bonus considering he lived in a city that never slept. He grinned as he felt a familiar presence enter the park and move in his direction. So she had decided to meet with him after all. He folded the paper and set it down on the bench beside him as the soft click of heels grew closer. The sound slowed and then quieted as she came to a stop beside the bench.

"The sun is shining." A soft voice stated dryly.

* * *

"But the ice is slippery."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Orwell could not help but smile at the code phrase. It all sounded very mysterious, like a bad spy film. She smoothed the material of her jean skirt beneath her as she sat down on the opposite end of the bench and crossed her legs casually.

"You are a long way from home, Mr. Cranston." She stated softly.

To her surprise, the man grinned. He slipped the glasses from his face as he turned his head toward her. A pair of brilliant blue eyes swept her appreciatively as the grin widened. Orwell flushed beneath his gaze as she felt a blush rising against her throat.

"I needed a change of scenery. Thought the California sun might do me some good." His rich voice replied.

She cleared her throat softly and quirked a small smile. "So what can I do for you, Mr. Cranston?" she asked.

"Call me Davis and you could start by telling me your name."

She narrowed her eyes slightly and fixed him with suspicion. "You don't know it?"

He shrugged slightly. "I was just told I was to meet someone in Palm City Park at noon." He grinned disarmingly. "And here you are."

Orwell frowned slightly. She had been under the impression that he had been her mysterious contact. His answer suggested otherwise. "You can call me Julie." She offered, falling back on the alias she had given to Vince's circus friends. She watched as amusement cross his handsome face before disappearing behind his friendly smile once more.

"Nice to meet you, Julie."

Orwell folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the bench. "I don't have a lot of time, Davis. What is it that you need?"

His face grew serious as he reached into the paper at his side and retrieved an embossed envelop from within its folds. "A friend of mine is in need of your assistance. He says that you have been of great help in the past and that a problem has come up that you may be able to assist with. As you know a shipment of historical treasures arrived last night and is to be displayed at a gala tonight. My friend believes that the man who stole his item intends to steal its mate tonight at the museum. As you know both the city and the workings of the Ark Corporation, he believes that you may be of assistance in helping to prevent this, if you are willing."

Orwell studied him for a moment while she considered the offer. "What kind of help would you require?" she asked.

A warm feeling pooled in the pit of her stomach as he smiled at her and held out the envelope. She opened it to find a richly embossed invitation, one to the Museum Gala that night.

"Tell me, Julie, do you dance?"


	12. Chapter 12

The night of the gala broke clear and calm. The steps leading to the large white marbled building which housed the _Palm City Metropolitan Museum of Art _were filled to the brim with photographers and press. The central section of the tall stairs was blocked off by thick velvet ropes, guarded by uniformed Ark Security guards. The building itself was tall and stately with eight large marble columns supporting a tall peaked roof in similar design to the Parthenon of Ancient Greece. Long thick banners of red burgundy hung from the roof between the columns advertising the opening of the Mongolian exhibition.

A long line of limousines stretched along the street in front of the building. The well dressed guests of the gala made their way up the stairs to the tall doors, pausing along the way to pose for photographs. An air of excitement and anticipation filled the night. An air of mystery was added as each guest was masked, leading to much speculation among those gathered as to the identity of the guests of the prestigious affair. Some were rather obvious, such as the rather stout round figure of the president of the largest bank in the city and his young blond trophy wife, who was decked in furs despite the warmth of the evening; others were less recognizable such as the tall dark haired man in the Armani tux exiting the limo at the bottom of the stairs. Despite the black half mask which hid half of his face it was obvious that he was very handsome. He smiled for the cameras, displaying a row of even white teeth, before turning and reaching a hand back toward the open door of the limo. A slim, manicured hand slipped into his larger one and a woman emerged. The cameras flashed a blinding bombardment of light as the man tucked his companion's hand possessively in the crook of his arm.

She was a vision. Long dark tousled curls settled lightly against flawless porcelain skin; her strapless satin midnight blue glow hugged her slender curves to her waist before flaring gently to her feet which were clad in a pair of delicate silver heeled sandals. Dark eyes shone from behind a delicate mask which had the appearance of fine silver dipped lace. She smiled demurely at the cameras as she gathered her skirt in her free hand and allowed her companion to lead her up the stairs.

"So much for slipping in unnoticed." She murmured with an ironic smirk.

Her companion smiled warmly at her, his blue eyes filled with soft admiration. "I have it on good authority that it would have been impossible for them to miss beauty such as yours." His grin widened as she blushed prettily.

Orwell turned her focus back to the stairs before her as she fought to cool the blush. What was it about this man that he was able to affect her so easily? They reached the top of the stairs without issue. Davis handed his invitation to the attendant at the doorway and lead her inside.

Soft music flowed from the open archways leading to the main gallery of the museum, providing a nice counter balance to the murmur of voices. Orwell paused in the doorway as she admired the elegant beauty of the room. Large globed lanterns washed the room in a soft soothing glow, mirroring the soft light of the moon which shone through the large sky light in the center of the dome overhead. Red and gold silk hangings streamed artfully from the center of the high ceiling to the second store balcony and then gracefully to the floor along the edges of the room, providing the impression of a large tent. A small group of musicians wove a haunting melody a stage set off to the side of the open area beneath the sky light.

A collection of large glass display cases were scattered strategically throughout the room, each displaying a different piece of the mysterious collection. One in particular seemed to be drawing attention, a long well lit case sat on top a wide pillar of white marble off to the side of the open area; inside it a beautifully carved sword gleamed above its matching golden sheath. Orwell paused beside a case containing a set of beautifully carved armor as Davis released her hand and reached out to collect a pair of champagne flutes from a passing server. He turned and handed her one, raising his own slightly in a toast.

"To a successful evening."

Orwell inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement and took a sip of the golden liquid. It was of fine quality, like everything else in the room. It seemed as if the Ark Corporation was pulling out all the stops on this one. She moved easily through the milling crowd, pausing before the display case housing the sword. It was beautiful. Four feet of fine crafted polished iron with a simple well worn hilt of polished gold the color of fresh butter. The sheath was a master piece in itself. Scenes of past battles and victories won by the infamous emperor Genghis Khan were intricately carved into the gold from top to bottom. A true work of art, a sword worthy of a ruler.

Her dark eyes shifted to the security features of the case. It seemed well protected. Sensors lined the inside of the case from top to bottom. The sword itself sat within a cradle on top of an artfully disguised pressure sensor plate. Her research had revealed an added safety feature set into the base of the case. If disturbed by an unauthorized person or threatened by fire, the entire case would sink automatically into a steel vault set deep beneath the foundation of the building. Once it was within the vault, only a special code held by the head of the museum would release it.

Orwell took a small sip from the glass in her hand for show as she turned to her companion. She paused as her eyes settled on his features, half hidden by the dark mask. The portion of his face which was exposed was calm, but his eyes revealed turmoil churning beneath the surface. She touched his arm gently and a shiver ran through her as the fathomless dark eyes turned and met hers. She felt as if all her defenses had been stripped away and her very soul lay bare. Davis blinked and turned his head quickly, his eyes shut tightly as his jaw clenched. When he turned to face her once more, the eyes behind the mask were a warm familiar blue. His eyes conveyed remorse as he gently placed a hand at the small of her back and led her away from the case to a tall table in the corner of the room.

Before he could speak, a fanfare came from the direction of the musicians. The guests turned to face in their direction as a lithe aristocratic figure moved to take the stage. Orwell stiffened slightly and shifted slightly behind her companion as her eyes settled on the man. She felt her companion's questioning eyes on her and she forced herself to relax. Davis had read her blog and knew some of Fleming's dark dealings, but some secrets were better left unrevealed. She turned and smiled at him. He returned her smile, though the concern was still evident in his blue eyes. They turned back toward the stage as Fleming began to speak.

"Welcome, my honored friends, to the unveiling of the Khan Collection." the smooth voice announced. He paused to allow for the applause, motioning for quiet after a moment. "It is a great honor for our fair city to play host to such a magnificent collection. I also consider it a great honor for the Ark Corporation to be entrusted with its safety while it resides in Palm City. I thank you for your support and hope that you will all make a large donation to help tonight's worthy cause,_ Metropolitan Museum of Art. _Of which I would like to present the first check made out in the sum of one hundred thousand dollars." He handed the check to the museum administrator with a smile, pausing briefly for a photo before raising a hand for quiet as the applause increased. "This night is one for fun, amusement and the admiration of treasures until now hidden from the public eye. So eat, drink and enjoy yourselves and as no one seems to be taking advantage of our magnificent musicians, I would like to officially open the dance floor if I might select a partner." The crowd chuckled as he waved a hand with a dramatic flair worthy of a stage actor. His dark eyes panned the crowd and then he moved smoothly to its edge and extended his hand.

Orwell stared at the hand before her, frozen for a heart beat before she plastered a smile on her face and handed her champagne flute to Davis. It took every ounce of her will power not to flinch as she accepted Fleming's hand and allowed him to lead her out to the middle of the floor.


	13. Chapter 13

Orwell forced herself to breath as Fleming signaled to the musicians. He took her hand lightly in his as placed his other hand just above her waist and led her smoothly into a graceful waltz. She felt trapped as she watched the faces of the crowd sweep by in a blur. A feeling of numbness overtook her as she allowed him to lead her smoothly around the floor. She embraced it, using it as a shield against the wave of conflicting emotions that threatened to overwhelm her at that moment. Her mind flashed back to a song, a similar dance so long ago and she felt a pang of loss. That man was long gone, destroyed by the man before her.

"You dance beautifully, my dear." The smooth voice complimented as he slowed their steps to allow room for the couples who were slowly beginning to join them on the floor.

She raised her eyes and smiled. "Thank you."

His dark eyes gazed at her curiously for a moment, as if he were trying to see beyond her mask. "Have we met before?"

Her heart lodged in her throat as she recalled the fundraiser on the train. She had worn a mask then too. Her forceful and accusing questions had caught his attention and he had nearly caught her then.

"I don't believe so." She lied. "It was kind of you to host such a lovely gala for the museum's benefit. I am sure they are very grateful." She remarked in an attempt to distract him, relaxing as the words flowed smoothly.

He smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. "Yes well, one does what one can."

The music came to an end and he released her. He bowed grandly and brushed a light kiss to her hand.

"Thank you for the dance, my dear." His dark eyes met hers intently before he suddenly smiled and then released her hand. With a wave to recognize the applause, he disappeared into the swirl of people.

* * *

Davis wove his wave easily through the crowd as the musicians launched into a soft melody. He reached out and smoothly drew Orwell into his arms, moving them slowly to the music. She seemed unaware of his presence, even as she curled instinctively into his arms. Davis held her securely as his mind projected gentle thoughts of calm and safety to quiet her troubled thoughts. She let out a shuddering breath and a violent tremor ran through her small frame. He tightened his arm around her slender waist and drew her closer, supporting her weight as she sagged against him. His mind reached outward gently discouraging any unwanted attention from the rest of the room.

His jaw clenched tightly. He had let himself be caught off guard and she had paid the price for his distraction. Fleming's mind was an enigma. On the surface he was polished and smooth, but there was a darkness that churned beneath the surface, a powerful darkness. While Davis was distracted by trying to decipher the darkness, Fleming had managed to snatch Orwell from beneath his nose.

"I'm sorry." He murmured softly against her hair. In the end, the best he could do was to deflect Fleming's attention away from her and redirect it toward the mayor. In his attempts to get a clear reading on Fleming, he had unintentionally read her thoughts as well. He was embarrassed by his breach of etiquette but he was not sorry for what he had learned. He loosened his arms as she finally relaxed and began to move under her own power. After a long moment, she relaxed her grip on his hand and raised her eyes to meet his as they gently swayed to the music. His warm blue eyes radiated concern as he smiled softly at her and despite the earlier incident, she returned his smile.

"Are you alright?" He murmured softly.

She nodded slowly before suddenly changing the subject. "So tell me more about this friend of yours. I believe he is known as The Shadow." She stated casually.

The turmoil within her had calmed though it was not as calm as the mask she had slipped into place. Davis sighed internally as he played along. He tipped his head to the slightly to the side as he smiled curiously.

"The who?" he asked.

He was pleased to see a genuine smile cross her lips as he spun her out in a gentle arch before drawing her back in as the band transitioned into a faster tune.

"I did a bit of research this afternoon and I found a number of articles from newspapers dating back as far as the early 1940s. The Shadow was a mysterious crime fighter who apparently, despite the fact that he must be in his 90s by now, is still active today."

"Is that so?" David remarked as he spun her out once more.

She rewarded him with a grin, as she arched a slender eyebrow. "He is rumored to have a network of agents, though unconfirmed, made up of people he has saved in the past. I also found several photographs of suspected agents, all of whom wore a similar ring." She smiled. "A gold ring with a blood opal stone, much like the one you wear on your right hand."

He responded with a shrug attempting to look nonchalant, which failed as a grin spread across his face. The music came to an end. Davis raised her hand and brushed a gentle kiss against her knuckles. She narrowed her eyes playfully at his attempt to distract her. The music began again and a murmur swept through the crowd. Davis grinned; the timing could not have been more perfect.

"Looks like our distraction has arrived." He said.

* * *

Orwell turned and looked toward the center of the room as the musicians began to weave a haunting tune. A slow trail of smoke wound through the room to the middle of the floor beneath the skylight. It began to twist and build upward in time to the music until the majority of the floor was engulfed in a fog, and then it vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, revealing large dark skinned man dressed in dark trousers, a rich burgundy silk shirt and gold brocade vest. An elaborate gold trimmed mask covered his face beneath the shadow of a towering silk turban.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight I bring you a taste of the mystic east, a land of enchantment and excitement with mysterious marvels lurking around every corner." The deep voice announced with fanfare, as pillars of fire shot up from the corners of the room. The audience reacted with startled cries and amused laughter as two turbaned men, bare-chested in baggy pants and gold brocaded vests and masks swung down to the main floor on the gold colored draperies that lined the walls. They landed lightly on the marble floor and bowed gracefully as the crowd applauded.

The man in the center grinned widely as he gestured toward the tall ceiling. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, Luna, daughter of the moon, mistress of the night."

All eyes swept upward as a lithe figure in white appeared on the railing of the second floor balcony. The crowd gasped with apprehension as she leapt gracefully into open space. The crowd breathed a sigh of relief and applauded as she caught hold of the gold drapes held securely by the men below. One of the men broke off and disappeared into the crowds as the remaining man steadied the fabric from below as she twisted it around her body from above, beginning a series of choreographed acrobatic twists and spins from above in time to the haunting music which flowed from below.

Orwell smiled as she watched Max and his team in their element. Despite the man's shady side ventures, she could not help but like Vince's strange friend. Her grin widened as she recognized the turbaned man who had left the floor as he slid past her. The eyes behind the mask were unmistakable, though he seemed to have gained a very dark tan sometime in the past four hours. Vince grimaced and winked slightly as he vanished into the background. Orwell turned as a hand brushed the small of her back.

"You ready?" Davis murmured with a smile.

She returned his smile mischievously. "Always."


	14. Chapter 14

The hallway leading to the rooms that housed the security offices of the museum was stark and utilitarian in contrast to the polished marble of the galleries and the grand hall. The polished linoleum floors gleamed brightly beneath the florescent lights set into the high ceiling. The walls were white, giving the impression that one was in a hospital and not a museum, though the air smelled more of dust and wax. The gray metal door which led to the security office was set into the right side near the end of the long corridor. A pair of large metal doors at the far end led to the museum store rooms below.

A lone security guard stood silent sentry in front of the store room doors, a look of boredom set deep into his plain young face. Personally he saw little point in guarding a set of locked doors located within a secure hallway, which was monitored by a security camera and set a mere ten feet from the security office itself. He sighed through his nose and shifted his stance. It was for those above his pay grade to give the orders, his job was to carry them out….no matter how pointless it might seem.

He straightened and dropped a hand to the gun on his hip as the doors on the opposite side of the hall opened. The hand relaxed and he smirked as a dark haired girl in a blue dress and silver mask began to weave her way unsteadily down the hallway. She hummed a soft tune almost absently as she fiddled with a small object in her hand. She let out a small cry of triumph as she pulled the top from what appeared to be a slender sliver tube.

"Ma'am, I believe you are lost." The guard stated, humor coloring his voice. His eyes lingered on her slim figure.

The girl raised her head sharply, and gave a small gasp of surprise before a slow smile slid over her lips and began to move closer.

"Am I?" she slurred slightly. "I seem to be always getting lost. I was looking for the ladies room."

The door to the security room opened and a tall blond man in a uniform stepped into the hallway. He rolled his eyes at his friend and turned to face the girl as she drew closer. She smiled as she applied her lipstick, drawing their attention to her soft red lips.

"Ma'am, you are going to have to leave." The man stated firmly.

The girl pouted slightly as she returned the cap to her lipstick tube and looked up at them from beneath the silver mask. "Do I have too? You boys look like you would be more fun than those fuddy duddies at the party." She purred as she stumbled as one slender ankle twisted beneath her sending her into the arms of the nearest guard as he moved instinctively to steady her. She smiled up at him seductively. "My you are strong, thanks for the save."

Before the man could respond, she raised the lipstick tube and brushed it with her thumb. Both men slumped boneless to the floor.

"Nighty night." Orwell smirked as she stepped over the man and into the security office. She slipped a small set of white noise emitters from her ears as she moved quickly toward the wall of flat screen TV panels which displayed the cameras for the entire building.

"I'm in." she murmured softly as she snapped a small compact at opposite end of the tube open and slipped a small finger tip disk free. She pressed the disk to the back of the main camera feed and smiled the footage of her latest escapade was replaced by a loop of footage of a corridor with a very bored guard. She glanced up as a caped figure dragged an unconscious guard into the room, and then disappeared before returning with the other. She tossed him a roll of duct tape from a cabinet beside the table and turned back to the screens.

"Your toy worked well." The Cape remarked over the sound of ripping tape.

Orwell smirked. "Was there ever any doubt?"

She smiled at his snort of amusement as she watched Ruvi charm a rope from a basket on the screen before her. Raia appeared to his left, dressed in a flowing fitted suit of red, and reached up and began to climb the rope. Orwell slipped on a pair of thin gloves as she turned away from the monitors and moved toward the computers. The Cape appeared to her right as her fingers flew over the keyboard, calling up the blueprints of the building. She glanced over at him with a grin; his skin was darker than normal against the black of his mask.

"I liked your other costume, particularly the tan. Were you thinking of trying a new look?"

The Cape growled softly before chuckling himself. "It was Raia's idea."

Her smirk widened. "Of course it was." She paused as her eyes settled on the floor plan to the museum store room which ran the length of the building nearly two stories below. "Davis is watching the main hall; if Kozmo makes a move there he will trigger the alarm which will drop the sword into the vault which is located here." She tapped the screen lightly. She felt him nod and turned as he moved toward the door.

"Be careful." She whispered softly as he reached the door.

His eyes met and held hers for a moment before he smiled. "You too."

Orwell turned back to the computer as the door shut behind him. Her dark eyes scanned the security monitors searching for any sign of Kozmo. This was the only window of opportunity he had left; he had to be here somewhere. She forced the uneasiness back as she forced herself to focus on the task before her. The door whispered open behind her and she turned expecting to see Vince. The smile froze on her lips before fading completely as fear surged up within her for the second time that night.

"Well it if isn't the Daddy's girl." The rough voice taunted. She moved away from him keeping a desk between them as a twisted grin spread across his face. "Where's your friend?"

Orwell glared at him, forcing the anger to overwhelm her fear. "Give up, Kozmo, you are never going to get the cape back." She said slowly, enunciating the words carefully and praying that Vince could hear her over the com. She grew cold as she failed to hear anything but static. Kozmo's grin froze and faded. He reached out a hand slowly, palm upward.

"Place the com on the table now." He ordered, his eyes cold and hard.

Her mind spun wildly as she tried to figure out a way to stall him. She removed the com and tossed it onto the surface of the desk. Her blood ran cold as Kozmo raised his hand revealing her lipstick tube.

"You really shouldn't leave your toys lying around, you know? Someone might pick them up." Her mouth felt like cotton as he twirled the device lightly in his hand. A smirk stretched across his cruel face. "Don't worry, princess." He raised the device toward her, his finger hovering above the button. "It's not you that I am after."

He pressed the button and the floor rushed up to meet her as the darkness swallowed her whole.


	15. Chapter 15

Davis rapped lightly on one of the metal panes of the back door of large painted truck. His eyes swept the large empty alleyway as he waited patiently for a response. The panel opened and a midget appeared in the doorway. He crossed his muscular arms over his chest and focused a suspicious stare at the man cloaked in shadows.

"Are you, Rollo?" Davis asked, masking his voice in the deeper velvet of his alter-ego.

The man nodded sharply. "What's the word?"

Davis smiled internally as he gave the password Max had chosen. "Houdini."

Rollo jumped down off the back of the truck to the black top and waved a hand over his shoulder at the vehicle. "I believe you will find what you are looking for inside." The small strong man slung a large duffle bag over his shoulder and stalked off toward the service entrance without another word.

Davis moved quickly into the truck, closing the door securely behind him. The interior was filled with racks of colorful costumes, boxes of props, a portable lighted mirror and makeup table, and – Davis raised an eyebrow as an amused smile tweaked his lips – a bank of professional grade security monitors, which were currently displaying views of both the interior and exterior of the museum. He shook his head and moved toward the back where a set of ornate trunks were stacked neatly in a corner. Someday he was going to have a talk with Max about his 'Carnival of Crime', but at the moment he had bigger fish to fry. He opened the top chest and removed a medium sized black box. He ran his fingers along the edges and a sharp click sounded as the top of the box slid open, revealing a neat pile of black fabric beneath a black fedora.

A short time later, The Shadow slipped from the truck and into the alleyway. He paused for a moment in the darkness close to the service entrance as Rollo emerged, this time carrying a large box, and returned to the truck. He tipped his hat in salute toward the man and slipped into the museum. Malini's show had reached its end and it had been well received as reflected by the sizable applause which sounded from the marble halls of the gallery. A soft hum of voices replaced the applause as the crowd returned to their mingling, dancing and drinking as the gala continued.

Time was running short and the gala would come to an end not long from now. Molotov would make an appearance soon, if he were not already present. Orwell most likely had taken over the security feeds by now and sent the Cape on his way to monitor the vault beneath the museum. His part, as far as they knew, was to keep watch on the main floor and trigger the alarm should Molotov try anything during the gala. The man was ruthless and would not think twice about harming any innocent bystanders in his way. The plan was to force Molotov into the storage rooms and away from the crowded gala.

The Shadow was thankful for their assistance as, though he had a great many abilities, he had so far been unable to mange to be physically in more than one place at one time. He grinned beneath his mask as his eyes swept the great room from a shadowed corner. Luckily for him, there were several men of his height and build in the room, so Orwell should not discover that he was no longer in the room – not as Davis Cranston at least.

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth as his thoughts turned to Orwell. She was smart…..no she was more than smart. She was both highly intelligent and highly perceptive, a dangerous combination but a useful one. It was an ability that could be highly attributed toward the reason she and The Cape had managed to make significant progress in their fight against the corruption that plagued their city. He both admired and appreciated their efforts and dedication. If only there were more people like them in the world. The smile grew soft as he recalled her questions and findings regarding the Shadow and his agents. She was something….much like his grandmother...particularly in regards to her spirit, intelligence and her knack for speaking her mind. He was definitely interested in getting to know her better….when the mission was complete and the Phurba was safe in the Sanctum's vault once more.

He shifted to the right quietly as a rather amorous couple invaded his hiding place behind the large column. He shook his head with a grin and continued to move along the wall, his eyes on the sword at the center. His smile faded as he sensed a faint but familiar presence. Molotov had arrived. He reached up and triggered the small com Orwell had provided him.

"The subject is in the building." He murmured softly.

Silence answered him. The Shadow frowned slightly and tried once more. Nothing. Orwell should have reported in by now, but the com remained silent. He stretched out his mind in an effort to locate her. A strong feeling of foreboding rose within him as he felt a faint trace of her presence – mingled with Molotov's. His jaw tightened as he moved quickly through the dimly lit room, careful to remain in the shadows along the walls to mask his presence. He slipped through the doorway and down the corridor toward the hidden hallway she had vanished into a mere twenty minutes earlier.

The hallway was empty and so there was no one to notice a shadow moving along the floor without an owner. The door to the security room was open a crack, he paused for a brief moment then eased it open and slipped inside. Molotov's presence was stronger here….as was Orwell's, but other than a pair of unconscious security guards lying bound on the floor, the room was empty. He paused as his eyes caught a metallic glimmer from the floor below the desk housing the security monitors. He moved forward and his eyes narrowed as he retrieved the object.

Orwell's delicate mask gleamed softly beneath the dim overhead lights. A flash of red scrawl drew his attention to the surface of the desk. Anger pulsed through his veins as he read the message.

_If you want her back alive, stay out of my way._

* * *

The Cape frowned as he moved silently down the aisle ways between the rows of tall metal shelving. It was similar to patrolling the streets as each shelf reached nearly twenty feet above him, stopping a few feet short beneath the high ceiling. His concern deepened as he attempted to reach Orwell once more but only silence greeted him. It could have been a malfunction….or perhaps interference caused by the thick layers of concrete which encased the storage rooms….but his instincts told him something was not right. How could it be when both Chess and Kozmo were in the same building? One psychopath too many….or perhaps _two_ too many.

It had been at least a half hour since he had last made contact with his partner or their mysterious new friend. He was still not sure what to think of the man, but Orwell seemed to trust him and she was a fairly decent judge of character. He paused in the shadows beside a stack of large shipping crates, debating whether or not he should return to the security room. This may be their one chance to catch Kozmo, however he would never forgive himself if his partner really was in danger and he had not gone to check on her.

Before he could move however, the decision was made for him. The sound of low voices came from behind large pile of crates roughly one hundred feet to the right of his hiding place, and growing closer with every second. With nowhere to go but up, The Cape quickly scaled up the nearest tall shelf and slid flat against the smooth cold surface of the top shelf mere moments before two men turned the corner and paused just inside the aisle. He stretched out on his stomach as he inched closer to the edge, directly above the men. A chill ran up his spin as he recognized one as Gregor Molotov aka Kozmo and the second as Peter Fleming. A pair of large men in security uniforms with large guns moved in to flank Fleming.

"I warned you, that you were not to set foot in this building until after the gala." Fleming's smooth voice stated coldly.

Molotov seemed unaffected by the man's ire. "I have no interest in your precious gala. I will wait until they are gone as agreed."

Fleming shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he considered the man. "You had better be able to make good on what you have promised." Then he turned to walked away. "You do not want see firsthand what happens to those who disappoint me."

Molotov let out a soft amused chuckle. "You mean like your precious security force."

Fleming turned to face him. "Explain."

Molotov folded his arms across his chest. "I believe you have a 'Cape' problem. I caught his sidekick playing with your security monitors not long ago. But don't worry I packed her away some place safe."

Before Fleming could move, Molotov snapped a hand and disappeared with a smirk and a flash of smoke. The Cape slid back against the shelf as Fleming began shouting orders at the guards as he disappeared back in the direction he had come. Anger and trepidation warred within the Cape as he listened to the echo of their boots against the concrete floor. He slid back to the edge as his eyes gazed out over the stacks of crates and shipping containers which filled the large room.

_Packed her away._

She could be anywhere.


	16. Chapter 16

Orwell let out a soft moan as she slowly became aware of the dull throbbing in her skull. She swallowed shakily as she raised a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose…or at least she tried to raise her hand. A frown stretched across her lips as she found she was unable to move her arms, in fact they seemed to be pinned beneath her. She moved her legs experimentally and found that they were bound as well. She swallowed thickly as she forced her sluggish brain to make sense of her current predicament. She remembered the gala…the security room….and then her blood ran cold as the memory of Kozmo's cold smile came rushing back.

A wave of panic welled up within her chest as her eyes flew open to find darkness. For a brief moment, a thought ran through her head that perhaps a side effect of her pulse technology was blindness. She dismissed the thought, though completely plausible, as she discovered that she was lying in a rather confined space. The surface she was laying on was hard, but contoured somewhat and smelled like melted plastic and plaster dust. A box. She was in a box….most likely one that had been previously used to transport plaster statues.

She sighed and let her body go limp as she considered her findings. The good news was that she was most likely still inside the museum. The bad news was that she had been kidnapped by a psychopath…mostly likely as leverage for use against her partner. Anger surged within her as she lashed out against her prison….anger at herself for making such a stupid rooky mistake and allowing herself to get caught, with her own gadget. A pained whimper escaped her lips as she slumped boneless once more as the pain in her skull increased.

She drew a shaky breath and her heart sunk lower as she tasted air that was stale and thin. She had been wrong about one thing…Kozmo was not coming back. He had sealed her in for good. She drew a shallow breath and she struggled to keep her mind off of her dwindling air supply. A tear traced silently down her cheek as she turned her face into the hard molding beside her.

_I'm sorry, Vince._

* * *

The Shadow pressed deeper into the darkness as a pair of security guards in Ark Corporation uniforms ran past him and disappeared deeper into the room. They were increasing in number. Someone must have discovered the men in the security room and raised the alarm. He cleared his mind and slowly probed outwards, searching for any trace of either Orwell or Molotov. Anger burned deep within him like a smoldering fire as he fought to keep his mind clear. Twice in one night she had been taken, though the threat from Molotov was significantly greater as the man had actual reason to do her harm. Fleming, as far as he knew, was still ignorant as to her real identity.

He frowned as the guards shifted their search patterns disturbing his concentration. _Focus._ He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as he pressed his mind deeper into the cavernous room. He turned as a faint energy brushed against the edges of his reach. His eyes flew open as he instinctively began to move toward it. The Phurba was here…hidden somewhere close by. The energy grew stronger, singing against the edges of his mind like a sirens call as it drew him in.

He ducked into a dark corner behind a stack of tall crates as another group of security guards hurried by. A low growl of frustration escaped his lips, stopping him in his tracks as realization washed over him. The Phurba's call grew stronger, urging him to find it, to use it…..power…..power…..power… The Shadow moved deeper into the darkness as he closed his eyes tightly and forced his mind to clear. He concentrated on strengthening his mental shields until the call of the Phurba had been reduced to a distant irritant. Feeling stronger, he slowly moved out of the shadows and continued to move silently deeper into the maze of crates and shelving.

Molotov's darkness had made the Phurba stronger. It leached off of greed and darkness….using the promise of fulfilled desires to lure those who were weak enough to listen to its call. Few were strong enough to resist it. The Shadow was one, as he knew the lies for what they were. He would not allow himself to be tempted by it. But he must find it. The Phurba had to be returned to the safety of the Sanctum, where it could be muffled and silenced.

The Shadow opened his mind, carefully this time, and pressed outward. He paused suddenly and spun to his left as a familiar voice brushed faintly against the edges of his mind.

_I'm sorry, Vince._

Orwell. She was here, hidden somewhere within the maze of boxes. A second presence drew his attention back in the direction of the dagger. Molotov. He was returning for the Phurba. The Shadow stood frozen for a long moment as a battle raged within him. His duty was to retrieve the dagger and to stop Molotov. However, something deep within him knew that if chose to go after the Phurba, the girl would die. Tension mounted within him as he felt Molotov grow closer.

_Davis._

Her voice was growing weaker.

Making his decision, The Shadow turned back in the direction he had come and ran silently deeper into the maze.

_Hang on, Orwell, I'm coming._

* * *

Orwell let out a soft gasp as she opened her eyes sluggishly. The air was getting thinner….lack of oxygen could account for hallucinations. She could have sworn she had heard Davis only moments earlier, as clearly as if he had been standing beside her. A fresh wave of tears ran unheeded down her face as she turned her thoughts to her mysterious new friend. He was more than he seemed. She was certain of it. She had seen a lot during her time as a self made exposer of crime….enough to develop a strong sense of who was good and who was not…..Vince was good. Max was good, despite his criminal sidebar.

Orwell closed her useless eyes slowly as she breathed a shallow breath. Davis….he was good too. She had felt safe and protected as he had held her in the grand hall, despite the fact she had known him for less than twelve hours. She frowned slightly as she recalled the soft words he had spoken. _I'm sorry_. Why was he sorry?

The thought faded from her mind as she struggled to draw a breath in the still, thin air of the box. Darkness loomed at the edges of her consciousness, urging her to give in to its soothing comfort…and she felt herself giving in. She was too tired to fight anymore.

_Stay with me. I'm almost there._

The voice was like a jolt of caffeine to her sluggish mind. Orwell swallowed thickly as she struggled to open her eyes.

_Davis? Help me._ She whispered weakly and she struggled to fight against the darkness as it wrapped around her like a warm blanket, coaxing her to give in.

* * *

_Davis? Help me._

The soft cry twisted at his heart as The Shadow slid to a stop before a stack of long crates. He moved quickly among them before stopping before one in particular. He tugged at the heavy latches which lined the box, struggling to pull the slide free. It moved with agonizing slowness. He stretched out his mind toward her presence to find it growing weaker still…she was out of air. There was no time left.

The Shadow stepped back from the crate and dropped his hands to his sides. He closed his eyes and began to focus his mental energy into one point, visualizing the box before him. A vibrating of wood against concrete broke the air before him as it began to tremble. He clenched his fists as his hands began to shake and the air around him became charged. A cracking sound spilt the air as the hinges along the edges began to bend outward as if some unseen force were pulling them. Then suddenly, the hinges flew back and the top of the box slid to the floor with a large bang.

The Shadow stumbled toward the box as the energy in the air dissipated as suddenly as it had appeared. He reached inside and carefully drew the pale girl into his arms. She slumped boneless against him as he moved them away from the wreckage back into the shadows of a nearby stack of crates as the sound of voices and boots pounding against pavement grew closer. He cloaked them both within the shadows as the guards came to a stop beside the crate. His attention turned to Orwell, as he pressed his gloved fingers against her throat. He relaxed as he felt a faint pulse beneath his fingers. She shuddered weakly against him as she drew a shaky breath.

_Easy, Orwell. I have you, you're safe._

He drew his knife and quickly slashed the tape from her hands and ankles before turning his eyes back to the guards. There were four and the way they were shouting, it was a good bet there would soon be more. Orwell whimpered softly as he shifted her into his arms and stood. He froze as one of the guards turned in the direction of their hiding place.

Before he could respond, the guard on the far side of the group let out a startled cry as he suddenly disappeared backward into the maze of crates. The remaining guards began yelling to each other as they spun their weapons in every direction in an attempt to identify the new threat. A second guard disappeared and this time The Shadow saw a dark wave of silk whip out of the shadows and engulf the man before dragging him away. The remaining two guards spun in panic and tried to run away. The Shadow watched with growing realization as the black wave took them down one after the other. A grin crossed his lips as he watched a caped figure emerge from the darkness and move toward the crate that had served as Orwell's prison. The man spun reflexively as The Shadow materialized and stepped out of his hiding place.

"Relax, I'm a friend." The Shadow said softly as he came to a stop in front of The Cape. "She's alive." He reassured the man as his eyes dropped to Orwell's still form. "She needs help. Malini is waiting in the alley above. She will be safe with him."

The Cape nodded tightly as he gently gathered his partner in his strong arms. He turned a questioning gaze toward the Shadow, but any question he might have asked was lost as a commotion sounded from nearby. The guards were returning, in mass.

"Go." The Shadow whispered.

The Cape turned and disappeared into the maze beyond, as the Shadow turned his attention toward the guards. He reached out and redirected their attention toward an invisible threat located somewhere on the far side of room. His grin widened as he watched them rush by, their voices growing fainter as they vanished deeper into room. Then he turned his full attention back to his previous mission.

_I'm coming for you, Molotov._


	17. Chapter 17

There were very few things in this world that had the power to unnerve Gregor Molotov. Of that very short list, the Shadow was one. After all, how could you kill a man that you could not see? Since the incident on the docks he had been on his guard, watching over his shoulder. He had thought he had been clever by working Fleming to gain access to the museum; however his discovery and capture of the Cape's little friend had made him wary. If the Cape could get past the guards, it was a good bet the Shadow was already here. It was that thought that drove him to retrieve the dagger sooner than he had planned. He had to move now, regardless of Fleming and his precious gala.

A loud noise sounded in the direction in which he had hidden the girl, causing him to quicken his step. His frown deepened as he reached the shelf where he had hidden the dagger. Either the Cape was better than he thought….or the Shadow had found her. Neither thought was pleasing. Molotov paused before a large ornamental vase and reached inside, retrieving a velvet bag. He opened the drawstring and looked inside. Gold glinted up at him against the black of the fabric. He smirked as he closed the bag and tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket. It felt strangely warm against his side, pulsing warmth as if it were alive instead of only a cold piece of lifeless metal. The smirk faded from his hard face as his hand rose unconsciously toward it and the thought crossed his mind that perhaps there was some truth to the myth.

The sound of heavy boots against pavement chased the thought from his mind as he quickly ducked around the corner of the tall shelves moments before a group of guards rushed past. He frowned as he watched them disappear further into the room. He had mentioned the Cape to Fleming in part to annoy him and in part to distract the man while he made a move for the sword. Molotov did not trust him, and he suspected that the feeling was mutual. Fleming was a master strategist. He did nothing without careful thought and planning. There were too many guards….particularly located in the storage room. Molotov eased around the corner carefully, his eyes carefully scanning the seemingly empty aisle. His frown deepened. It smelled like a trap.

A loud commotion drew his attention in the direction of the far end of the room…..in the direction of the vault where he was to meet Fleming to make the exchange. A foreboding ran through him as he considered his options. True to the name of his alter-ego, Fleming had managed to close him in at every turn. Now it was just a matter of choosing the option with the least amount of risk….if such an option existed.

_I'm coming for you, Molotov._

He froze. A chill ran through him as the words pierced his mind as clearly as if they had been spoken. Not now_._ He spun around; his eyes wildly sweeping the shadows for the masked man. Anger flared within him, burning away the chill as he spun around and ran toward the stairs leading to the museum floor. Option B it was.

He sneered.

_Come and get me._

* * *

The main floor of the museum was quiet, almost eerily so considering that less than thirty minutes earlier the room had been filled with laughter and music. The last of the stragglers had been herded out by Fleming's security team under his orders. He could not afford for someone to find out that the museum had been infiltrated despite his security precautions…particularly not the army of leeches masquerading as journalists. Despite the Ark Corporation's tight control on the majority of the newspapers in the city, there were still a few that remained beyond his reach….for now.

The door to the service hall swung shut as the caterers carted off the last of the dishes and linens. All that remained was the frame of the low stage at the edge of the center floor and a cluster of tall tables against the back wall, awaiting retrieval by the rental company the following day. The artifacts gleamed dully beneath the dim light from the lamps overhead and from the faint light of the moon which still shone through the skylight above. Fleming stood before the glass which separated him from the current bane of his existence. It was a beautiful piece of weaponry, but he held some doubt that it was more than what it appeared. A tight frown twisted his thin lips as he let out a breath slowly through his nose. Immortality was a foolish man's dream and he was a fool to believe it. Did he truly want to live forever?

Fleming closed his eyes as he felt the darkness rise within him, trying to break free of his tight control. He could feel his alter-ego's thoughts caressing his mind, coaxing him to give in and let him out. Chess was the reason he had agreed to Molotov's proposal. Life was a game to him, a never ending battle of wits in which he was the grand master. Chess was drawn to power. While the promise of immortality was alluring, it was the sword itself that had captured his attention. Its symbolism…and its history. Its last owner had nearly conquered the known world in his lifetime. The world had grown quite a bit larger since Khan's time. To master it would be more of challenge….and Chess did loved a challenge.

He could feel Chess growing stronger. It was only a matter of time before he lost control. He opened his eyes as he forced the darkness back into the recesses of his mind. His dark eyes swept over the room, carefully watching for signs of movement. A humorless smile graced his lips in satisfaction as he saw none. The room was not as empty as it seemed; his handpicked security team lurked in the shadows….waiting. The trap was settling into place.

He pulled a key from his pocket and set it on the thin ledge of the display case. With the storage room crawling with guards searching for the Cape, he anticipated Molotov would forgo the prearranged plan and make a move for the sword here in the main gallery. Why not help speed things along? He slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he turned and moved toward the opposite door without looking back. A dark smile crossed Fleming's face as he exited the room. Whether he delivered or not, Molotov would not live to see another dawn. Tomorrow's headlines would read _Thief Killed in Attempt to Steal Treasure_. With any luck he might even be rid of the Cape as well.

* * *

The Shadow paused as he neared the doors which led to the main gallery. He could feel Molotov's presence close by. The man had paused somewhere just beyond the entrance…..just waiting. What was he waiting for? The Shadow frowned as he projected his mind further outward into the room. His frown deepened as he felt the presence of roughly a dozen additional men, their thoughts all focused toward one aim. So that was game…..a double-cross.

He was not surprised by the revelation; in fact, he had suspected it. Molotov had demonstrated his trustworthiness….or lack of….numerous times, and from what he had gleaned of Fleming's past dealings, the man was far from a saint himself. The only problem now was how to get to Molotov before Fleming's men took him out. It was not that he had any pity for the man, far from it, but he had to retrieve the Phurba before it fell into yet another pair of extremely bad hands. He silently moved forward, cloaking his presence in surrounding darkness as he slipped into the room.

Getting by the guard at the door was child's play for the Shadow….after all who would notice one shadow among many? The room remained quiet, all attention focused on the display case in its center. He moved silently along the far wall, pausing behind a large pillar as he felt a shift in movement to his left. A hooded figure emerged suddenly out of the darkness and into the small circle of dim light. The Shadow frowned as he watched as the man neared the case which housed the sword. Something felt very wrong. Around him, he felt a wave of anticipation radiating from the small army hidden in the shadows as the man reached his destination and paused. Tension continued to build as the man reached out and retrieved something from the thin ledge of marble and placed it into the base. A soft _click_ broke the silence as one of the wide glass panels along the side of the case swung open.

The man reached inside and carefully grasped the hilt of the sword. He eased it out slowly, taking a step backward as it came free without incident. A pair of gloved hands wrapped around the grips of a pair of silver plated pistols, easing them silently from their holsters as the man turned and took a step back in the direction in which he had come. A sharp _ping_ sounded and the man slumped boneless to the cold marble of the floor. The sword clanged noisily as it skittered against the stone, halting a mere foot away from the lifeless hand.

For a moment the room was still with the exception of a dark pool growing steadily around the fallen man, and then a guard broke formation and moved toward the body. He bent and pulled back the hood from the man's face. Then he straightened suddenly and spun around, weapon raised. He opened his mouth but before he could speak, a sharp retort of a revolver sounded from the shadows.

The man was dead before he hit the floor...and it was then that all hell broke loose.


	18. Chapter 18

The sharp retort of automatic gunfire filled the room as the remaining guards returned fire in the direction in which the second shot had originated. The Shadow crouched low against the pillar as a slug struck the polished marble where his head had been a second earlier. He could feel Molotov's presence on the far side of the room, hidden in the darkness…waiting. The man seemed both pleased and impatient. His eyes shifted to the bodies in the center of the room as he quickly deciphered the man's plan.

Molotov had manipulated a guard, the first man, into acting as a decoy to spring the trap. The man had been shot by one of the guards who had believed him to be their target. The second guard had discovered the ploy and had been killed because of it….most likely by another victim of Molotov's mind control. Now the man was waiting for the guards to kill each other in the cross-fire, leaving him free to make a play for the sword. The Shadow grimaced. Although the gunfire was currently keeping Molotov from reaching the sword, it was also keeping him from reaching Molotov.

A spray of powdered marble fell from overhead as a second slug glanced off the pillar above him. He cleared his mind and probed outward into the room, searching for the source of the fire. Three guards remained to his right, all focusing their fire across the room in the direction of where the second shot had originated. He sensed one guard to his left, hidden behind one of the larger display cases. The two in the middle of the floor made six. The remaining six guards were located somewhere on the second floor balcony overhead. They remained curiously silent as the battle continued to rage beneath them.

The Shadow focused his attention on the lone guard to the left as he realized the man was returning fire. He pressed closer to the man's thoughts and smirked as he identified Molotov's puppet. The soft rubber soles of his boots whispered quietly against the marble tiles of the floor as he moved closer to the man. He raised a silver plated pistol and carefully took aim. A _whoosh_ of air, softer than a sigh, sounded and the man slumped slowly to the floor. The Shadow moved closer to the man and removed the gun from his hand, sending it skittering toward the back wall. A gloved hand carefully reached beneath the edge of the man's collar and pulled a small tranquilizer dart free. One down.

Across the room, the gunfire slowly tapered off and then finally stopped as the remaining guards realized that their opponent had ceased his fire. The Shadow crouched low as the men stepped out of the darkness and began to slowly move across the room in his direction. He quickly shifted deeper into the shadows as he pressed outward with his mind. Molotov's impatience was increasing. He quickly processed his options as he watched the men move closer. Ten against one, while not ideal, was possible if he played it smart. The decision was made for him as the guards suddenly halted their advance and began to slowly turn toward one another.

_So that is how you want to play._

* * *

Molotov made a slow motion with his hand and smirked as the remaining guards turned to face each other with rifles raised. It was nearly too easy, like shooting fish in a barrel. His eyes flicked to the sword and then back to the guards. He paused and his forehead wrinkled in confusion as his eyes swept the room, which seemed to have darkened considerably in the last second or two. Then, as he watched, tendrils of inky black shadows began to slide across the floor like the tentacles of some creature from out of the depths of a nightmare. He let out a roar of anger as realization struck him, but before he could give the order for the men to fire, the darkness rushed in from all sides and snuffed out all remaining light. A familiar mocking laughter filled the air.

_Nice try, Molotov._

Molotov pressed his back against the wall as he wildly attempted to determine the direction the voice was coming from. He slipped a throwing knife from the holster on his forearm and gripped it tightly as he strained his ears against the muffling shadows. A series of heavy thuds sounded from the center of the room, followed by the sound of metal skidding across marble.

_I want the dagger._

The voice was closer this time, somewhere to his left. He whipped his hand sharply and released the dagger into the darkness. A sharp clanging noise sounded from beyond.

_You missed._

A deep chilling laughter wrapped around him from all sides as he slipped another knife free of the holster. Shouting sounded from the level above as the darkness began to shift and move around him like a living creature.

_Give me the dagger, Molotov._

Molotov spun to his left as the voice seemed to whisper in his ear. He hurled the knife with a snarl in its direction, letting out a growl as the soft tinkle of glass sounded in the distance.

_Missed again. You disappoint me, Gregor._

The laughter nearly drove him mad as he reached for another knife only to find the holster empty. In desperation, he reached into his jacket and ripped the bag free from his pocket. The dagger pulsed warm beneath his hand as he wrapped it around the hilt and pulled it free of the velvet. It glowed faintly against the inky black of the shadows as he brandished it before him. The shadows melted back, creating a tunnel of a sort as he moved. He held it further out before him and then slowly began to move forward as a path opened up before him.

_Where do you think you are going?_

Molotov stopped and spun to his right as the voice whispered from behind him. The shadows slid back suddenly revealing a dull yellow gleam beneath the glow of the dagger in his hand. Hope surged through him as he ran to where the sword lay and closed his fingers around the hilt.

_I wouldn't do that if I were you._

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere all at once, if possible. Molotov fingered the bottom of the hilt with shaking fingers as he fought to remember the story he had heard only once, and only half at that as he had brushed it off at the time as no more than a fairy tale. A heady relief coursed through him as the hilt twisted beneath his hands and slid free. It clanked loudly against the hard floor as he released it. A hollow shaft remained where the hilt had resided. It was perfectly proportioned to fit the oddly shaped blade of the dagger in his hand. He slid the tip of the blade into the shaft and shoved it into place.

Hysterical laughter escaped his lips and he held the sword out before him. "You lose, Shadow."

To his surprise, the Shadow merely laughed mockingly in response. Did he not understand the significance of the weapon he held in his hand…nor the power he now yielded? He looked down in confusion as the hilt twitched beneath his fingers.

_I warned you._

The words whispered a foreboding. He watched as if a man locked in a dream from which he could not escape as the head carved into the hilt of the dagger slowly moved….the small eyes flew open and narrowed as the small mouth opened to reveal a set of needle sharp teeth. Molotov watched in growing disbelief as the mouth opened wider and the dagger's head let out a bloodcurdling shriek.


	19. Chapter 19

The Cape moved stealthily down the darkened service corridor leading from the kitchen/service area toward the main floor of the museum. He had yet to meet any opposition from Fleming's security force…which was odd considering the number he had nearly encountered during his quick flight out of the building with Orwell. Max had met him at the service entrance, where his crew lingered under the guise of repacking their vehicle. At his signal, Raia had moved to distract the only guard remaining in the vicinity as his friend smuggled them into the alley and safely to the truck. He surrendered his partner into Max's care and arranged to meet them back at Trolley Park. It had taken a bit of convincing and a sharp order from Max to keep Rollo from following him back into the building. The small strong man had been very intent on inflicting serious bodily harm to Kozmo in return for harming 'Julie'.

The Cape had remained in the alley until the taillights of the vehicle faded safely into the distance before returning to the darkened museum. There was still was still a mission to complete. Cranston was most likely safely gone by now, his portion of the job complete. Anger smoldered deep within him as he recalled his partner's pale face. Where had Cranston been when she was taken? His com should have been working and the main gallery was not far from the security corridor. A small tendril of guilt wove through his thoughts as he paused in the shadows behind the door leading to the main floor and listened. The room beyond the door was quiet. He sighed internally, squelching his dark thoughts as he silently slipped through the door.

In all fairness, he did not believe that Cranston would have left Orwell had he known she was in danger. He did not seem like the type to run from a fight, particularly if someone were in danger. The man practically bled chivalry. None of them had suspected Kozmo was already in the building, let alone on the main floor. Besides, the man was a civilian. It was bad enough Orwell insisted on putting herself in danger…no, it was no one's fault, but his own and that of the faulty com units. His thoughts turned briefly to the masked man who had rescued Orwell from the crate. He wondered who the masked man was. Whoever the man was, he owed him a debt of gratitude. Perhaps he would be able to repay the favor before the night was out.

The Cape moved swiftly across the polished floors of the side gallery toward the grand hall as his mind began to calculate a plan on how to return to the storage room unseen. Statues loomed in the shadows along the edges of the room, playing with his mind as his ears strained to listen for the heavy tread of boots against stone. A slight frown crossed his lips as the sound of distant laughter echoed within the wall of the empty hall. He had heard the laughter once before…at the pier. Judging from the direction of the echoes, the sound had originated in the grand hall. Perhaps Kozmo had decided to make a play for the sword after all. He quickly reconfigured his plan as he turned and headed toward the staircase leading to the second storey balcony. He needed a better vantage point in order to assess the situation.

A sharp clanging sound echoed through the room from below as he reached the landing which led into the balcony. He crouched low behind a large planter as a team of guards rushed out of the shadows and toward the railing, weapons raised. He counted them quickly. Six guards…too many to be coincidence. Perhaps Chess had attempted a double cross. His thoughts were interrupted as cold laughter rippled up through the large room from the floor below. The guards began to shout at one another as they moved erratically along the railing…as if searching for a target they could not see. A sharp tinkle of glass sounded from below and the Cape took the opportunity provided by the distraction to pick off two of the guards closest to him. He swiftly drug the men into a nearby alcove and used their handcuffs to bind them to the exposed pipes of a nearby drinking fountain. Two down. Four to go.

He moved quietly to the edge of the alcove and peered around the corner at the remaining guards. They were too far away…he would have to find a way to get closer. The men had stopped their shouting but continued to stare over the balcony with a mixture of fear and confusion on their faces. The Cape moved swiftly to the edge of the railing to have a look for himself at what held them mesmerized. His eyes narrowed in disbelief as they took in the mass of black which swirled just beyond the bottom edges of the balcony. A chill ran through his blood as another wave of dark mocking laughter issued out of the cloud. His mind shifted back to the masked man in black…first the fog and now a swirling mass of darkness…who was this guy?

A shout rang out and a bullet whistle past his ear causing him to instinctively duck back behind the flimsy support of the balcony railing. He cursed himself internally for taking his attention off of the guards as he flicked his wrist and spun, vanishing in a cloud of smoke…or at least it appeared that way to the men pointing the large weapons at him. He ducked swiftly into an alcove across from his previous position as he watched the guards ran past in an attempt to locate him. A wave of dark silk whipped out, silently engulfing the guard at the rear. A second quickly followed before the remaining two noticed they were gone. He watched as they grew closer, but before he could move a new sound echoed through the room…a sound that sent a primal fear through his veins.

A shrill inhuman shriek.

* * *

The Shadow focused all of his attention on the Phurba's signature as it awoke. He could feel the power pulsing through it…and its lust for blood. The guards above had grown strangely quiet, but they were of little concern at the moment. He had to regain control of the Phurba before it killed, and thanks to Molotov it how had a four foot extension to its blade.

A second scream ripped through the surrounding darkness…this time a human scream. Molotov. The Shadow spun instinctively behind a display case as the glass shattered where he had been standing a moment earlier. A blade sliced through the leather covering his upper right arm as it whistled by, vanishing into the darkness beyond. He ducked lower behind its marble base and briefly examined the tear as an angry shriek filled the room. The dagger had sliced through both layers of clothing, but had not broken his skin. He turned his full attention back on the blade…in time to dive out of the way as it whistled past him once more.

The Shadow closed his eyes in concentration as he followed its path with his mind to the far side of the room. A guard shouted overhead, drawing its attention upward. The Shadow grimaced and shifted his focused to the swirling cloud surrounding them. Enough was enough. He stood swiftly and moved to the center of the floor, as the cloud dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. Molotov was slumped against a pillar not far away cradling his bleeding hand, his face twisted in a look of horrified disbelief. The Shadow sent a wave of energy toward the dagger as it hovered near the edge of the open room. It shrieked in response to his attempt at control, blood dripping from its small but lethal mouth as it stared menacingly at the man who dared defy it. It moved forward slowly, hilt bending out toward the Shadow as it studied its opponent.

A shout rang out from the balcony above distracting them both for a brief moment…and then time seemed to slow as several things happened all at once. A bullet slammed into the display case behind the Shadow sending a shower of glass over the center floor as the guard who fired it disappeared behind a mass of black silk. The Phurba shrieked once more as it turned away from the Shadow to face the new threat from above. The Shadow moved toward it, but before he could reach the dagger a bloodied hand wrapped around the gold hilt and jerked it downward. Molotov quickly wrapped a section of his torn sleeve around the struggling, shrieking head. His eyes glowed with a half crazed, half victorious look as he wavered unsteadily on his feet and turned toward the Shadow, brandishing the sword before him.

"You aren't going to win this time, Shadow. I have the sword. I have the power." Molotov hissed unsteadily. "You can't beat me."

A sudden movement caught the attention of both men as the Cape dropped down from the upper balcony. He rose slowly as the eyes behind the dark mask watched the men carefully. Molotov spun toward him. "I'll deal with you in a moment, Thief." He growled as he gripped the hilt tighter; the blade wavered in his hands. The Shadow waved the Cape back as he moved slowly toward Molotov. He could feel the power of the Phurba corrupting the man's weak mind. It was only a matter of time before it was free once more. He had to end it now.

"You cannot control it, Gregor." His velvet voice soothed. "Give it to me while there is still time."

Molotov spun back toward the Shadow, dropping into a defensive stance. "Stay back!" He yelled.

The Shadow focused his mind on the Phurba as it jerked in the man's weakening grip. He called to it, but it resisted. It was too strong as long as it continued to feed off of Molotov's energy. They were linked now, a bond made solid through blood. He shifted intending to take the sword forcibly from the man, but before he could move Molotov shifted back several steps, widening the distance between them. A wave of energy blasted outward from the dagger as it suddenly freed itself from its captor.

The Shadow took a quick step forward as it read the intention of the Phurba, but before he could reach it, the dagger turned with a shriek toward Molotov's flailing hands…and ran the blade of the sword deep into the man's chest. Molotov sank to the floor slowly in disbelief, his eyes locked on the glowing gold hilt before him. His injured hand wrapped around the blade uselessly as he slumped against the polished marble tiles. His eyes shifted toward the Shadow and his lips moved though no words emerged…then his body went limp as the light faded from his eyes.

The Shadow moved quickly as he felt the Phurba's power lessen with the fading of the man's life force. He reached out with his mind and smothered its remaining power as he called it free of the sword hilt. The Phurba sailed through the air toward him, silent as he caught it neatly in his gloved hand. The Cape moved slowly closer, his eyes on the fallen man. The Shadow could feel the waves of confusion and horror flowing from the man as he turned to face him, but before he could say a word the sound of heavy boots and shouts filled the air as a new contingent of guards rushed toward the room…along with a familiar presence. The Cape spun toward the new threat, but before he could respond, the Shadow waved a hand toward the man and watched as he suddenly straightened before vanishing in a cloud of smoke and light.

The Shadow melted back into the darkness as the guards entered the room, followed by Fleming himself. He felt man's annoyance as he stalked over to Molotov's body, carefully avoiding the growing pool of crimson spreading rapidly across the floor. The man let out a deep sigh as he reached down and swiftly pulled the blade free. He wiped it clean on the man's clothing. "The Cape is still somewhere in this building. Find him!" He ordered over his shoulder as his cold dark eyes studied the man lying before him with detached interest. He studied the sword before spinning on his heel away from the body.

"Well that was a waste of time."

Hidden in the darkness, the Shadow smirked.


	20. Chapter 20

A breeze whispered softly across the roof top, rustling the cape of the dark figure perched at its edge. A kaleidoscope of red and blue strobe lights flashed from the streets below as the police swarmed the front of the museum. The Cape watched for a moment before pushing back from the edge. He turned slowly and racked his brain once more as he attempted in vain to recall exactly how he had ended up on the rooftop of the building across from the museum. The last thing he remembered was looking down at Kozmo's lifeless body followed by the sound of the approaching security…and then he was standing in the middle of the roof, listening as a symphony of sirens shattered the still night.

He turned as the soft skitter of loose gravel alerted him to the fact that he was not alone. A dark figure separated from the shadows on the far side of the roof and slowly moved closer. He watched warily as the man paused a few yards away, gloved hands held open at his sides to show he was unarmed. The Cape took an instinctive step backwards as a voice spoke softly in his head.

_I owe you an apology. _

"You could start by not doing that." He stated, annoyance coloring his tone. It had been a very long, very strange night and his patience was beginning to fray. The full black mask made it impossible to read the man's expression as he dropped his head slightly.

"Again, I apologize. Sometimes I forget that I am not speaking aloud." The velvet voice replied softly.

"I am guessing you are responsible for the fact that I am on this rooftop." A statement, not a question.

The man nodded. "There were too many guards headed our way. I thought it might be wise to escape while there was still a chance." Regret colored his tone as he continued, though the Cape had a feeling that it was not for planting the suggestion in his mind. "You have my word that I will not do it again."

The Cape nodded slightly. "So what exactly happened in there?"

The Cape watched as the man crossed over the wide cement ledge which ran around the edge of the roof and sat down. He turned his head and looked over the edge at the growing mass of security below before turning back to face him. "You of all people should know that there are some things that cannot be explained. Molotov made his choice…the wrong choice," Came the soft reply. "But I was not the one who killed him. He brought that on himself."

The Cape watched him for a long moment before joining him at the ledge. "You are the owner of the freaky flying dagger." Another statement.

A soft laugh answered him. It was different than the laughter he had heard inside the museum…different from the laughter on the pier. This one sounded both amused and bone weary…and very human. The man nodded slowly as he turned away from the edge and folded his hands together, placing his elbows on his knees as he dropped his head forward. "Yes."

"Why didn't you take the sword as well? Aren't they a matched set? After what I witnessed, I don't think it is something you should have left in Fleming's hands." He remarked as he sat down a few feet away.

The man nodded once more. "I figured as much. The sword is just a replica. I switched it with the original before it even left the ship. I couldn't take the chance that Molotov would get a hold of both."

The Cape raised an eyebrow. "Where is the real one?"

"Somewhere safe." came the soft reply.

A pensive silence filled the space between the men as each sat lost in his own thoughts. Finally the Cape spoke. "I owe you a debt of gratitude for rescuing my partner." He stretched out a gloved hand toward the man beside him. "Thank you…" He left the sentence open, fishing for a name.

The man took his hand in a firm grip. "I am known as the Shadow, and no thanks are necessary. I should thank you and your partner for your assistance in recovering my dagger."

The Cape nodded absently as the man's name struck a familiar cord. He turned. "You wouldn't happen to be the same Shadow who is reported to haunt New York City?"

The man nodded.

The Cape raised an eyebrow. "Considering you have been doing so for the last sixty or seventy years, I have to tell you that you move surprisingly well for your age." He smirked.

The man snorted in response and a genuine laugh broke through the tension. "Thank you."

The Cape grinned. "Did you know that at the police academy they have a whole section in the chapter on vigilantes devoted to your alleged activities?"

The Shadow shook his head slowly as the Cape continued. "Although the official stance is that the police do not approve of vigilantes, I got the impression that they did value your help…and that of your predecessor." He paused for a brief moment before continuing. "Can I ask you something?"

The Shadow nodded. "I owe you that much."

All humor faded as the Cape turned to face him. "Why do you do what you do? What makes you risk your life for the welfare of strangers who will most likely never know who you are and what you've done?"

The Shadow remained silent for a long moment; finally he turned and looked down at the scene below. "A wise man by the name of Edmund Burke once said _'all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing'_. I do what I do because I have the ability to make a difference, no matter how small that difference might sometimes be." He turned back to the roof and stood slowly, moving away from the edge. The Cape stood as the man turned toward him. "As long as there are men like Fleming in this world, there will be a need for people like us. You are making more of a difference to the people of this city than you give yourself credit for, Cape. You bring them hope."

With that the man melted into the darkness.

_Goodbye, my friend, and good luck._

The Cape stood silently for a long moment, his gaze locked on the empty space before him as he pondered the man's words. Finally, he turned to leave, determination in his step.

"Good luck to you as well."


	21. Epilogue

A soft sigh escaped Orwell's lips as she turned her face into the soft warmth of mid-morning sun. She allowed her eyes to drift close and her mind to empty as she listened to the sounds buzzing around her. The rustle of the wind through the branches of the trees...the soft musical trickling of the fountain beside her…the excited yells of children playing punctuated by the distant shrill of a whistle…the laughter and chatter of people enjoying the day...all swirling together in a rhythmic symphony of life. She embraced it fully, letting it chase the lingering memories of the silence of her nearly permanent tomb back into the far recesses of her mind.

She smirked lazily as she felt the weight of Vince's gaze from across the park. He had barely left her side since his return to Trolley Park in the early hours of the morning. The stubborn man still labored under the belief that he had been responsible for the attempt on her life…despite her firm insistence to the opposite. It was her fault if it was anyone's, but it was over now…and she was wiser for it. The soft rustle of newspaper drew her thoughts to the story Vince had recounted…a story radically different from the one in this morning's early edition of the _Palm City Times_. According to the paper, a daring would-be thief had died in the midst of a gun battle with the Ark Corporation's highly acclaimed security team during an attempt to rob the museum. The man had not been named. Not that there had been a lot of space with all of the promoting of the Ark Corporation and Peter Fleming. Fleming had further increased his standings among the city fathers by offering to cover the cost of the damage out of his own pocket.

Orwell grimaced at the thought. Lemmings, the lot of them…listening to the tune of their piper. The story Vince had recounted had been very different. It was difficult for her to fully grasp what he had described of the showdown in the grand hall and the death of Gregor Molotov. It sounded like more like a plot of a B-rated horror film. However, while she would not have wished such a violent death on anyone, she could not help but feel a little relieved that the man was no longer a threat. She brushed aside the small feeling of guilt at the thought as she focused on the musical chimes of the ice cream cart as it moved along the path nearby. Her mind drifted to the mysterious Shadow and his role in the drama…particularly the fact that he had been the one to rescue her from the crate. It was as if the final pieces of a puzzle were falling into place…to reveal a very interesting picture. One that involved her new friend, the mysterious Davis Cranston.

"The sun is shining."

Speak of the devil. A smile tweaked at the corners of her lips as she opened her eyes slowly and looked up at the man standing before her.

"So I noticed." She stated dryly.

His soft laugh washed over her as he sat down on the edge of the fountain's ledge beside her. "That's not how it goes." He replied with a grin. His eyes were lined with dark smudges and a fine dark stubble graced his strong jaw, but the cobalt eyes were clear and warm as they smiled down at her.

She shrugged lightly. "I've never been one to follow the rules."

His grin widened. "Where's your bodyguard?"

Orwell smirked and turned to look back over her shoulder at a man seated beneath a tree across the park, his attention split between the children's soccer game on the field below him and her current location. "He had a game to catch."

Her eyes wandered out over the field, easily picking out Vince's son from the pack of children moving quickly up the field In pursuit of the black and white ball. Vince had spoke of nothing else but Trip's game for days and, despite the events of the previous night, she had insisted that he still make it…though at the moment his attention seemed to be solely fixated on her now that Davis had joined her. She turned back to Davis, in time to catch the trace of a smirk slide quickly from his lips behind a warm smile.

"I heard what happened. Are you alright?" He asked as his eyes swept her features.

Orwell dropped her eyes for a brief moment in an attempt to halt the blush she felt rising to her face in response to his concern. She let out a soft sigh and smiled wearily. "I'll be fine. It's not my first near death experience…though it was the first time I nearly brought it on myself. Taught me not to leave my gadgets lying around where crazy mad-men might run across them."

She raised her eyes to meet his and the words dissolved as she was lost for a moment beneath the intensity of his suddenly dark gaze. Orwell shivered slightly though she knew that the anger she saw was not directed at her. Davis shut his eyes tightly and turned his head away, his jaw tight and his body rigid.

She watched him for a moment, then gathering her courage she plunged ahead. "I heard your voice in my head, encouraging me not to give up…you gave me the strength to hold on, before you freed me from the crate." She remained silent for a moment as she allowed her words to sink in. "Thank you. You saved my life…Shadow."

The name fell quietly from her lips, nearly without sound as she watched the man beside her. He remained silent for a long moment before finally letting out a soft huff of laughter. "Well this certainly makes things a little more interesting."

Orwell reached out hesitantly and placed her hand on his arm. "I won't reveal your secret…if that is what you are worried about." She felt the butterflies within her stomach take flight as Davis covered her hand with his larger one and turned to face her. His eyes softened as a weary smile graced his lips.

"I never thought you would." He said softly, his smile widened as she blushed lightly.

"So what happens now? You perform some sort of Jedi mind trick and wipe my memory clean?" she asked half teasingly.

She smiled in spite of herself and the seriousness of the situation as Davis suddenly threw his head back and exploded with laughter. After a moment, he managed to quiet it into a soft chuckle. "No, I have a better plan for you." He stated with a wide grin as he reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small velvet drawstring bag.

Orwell accepted the satchel with a curious smile and opened it, tipping its contents into her palm. Her eyebrows shot up incredulously as she examined the object in her hand. "Why, Davis, I'm flattered but I don't believe we know each other well enough for this." She grinned foolishly as his responding laughter washed over her, happy to see the tension fade from his eyes.

He gave her a lop-sided grin. "We can discuss that later." He teased, causing the butterflies to launch into a frenzy.

In an effort to keep her composure, Orwell slid the delicate gold ring onto the ring finger of her right hand and studied the deep spectrum of color that danced within the opal beneath the light of the sun. "So does this mean I am one of your minions?" she asked.

Davis shook his head slightly as he met her eyes. "I was thinking more along the lines of trusted ally."

Davis felt her surprise wash over his mental shields as she raised her dark eyes to meet his in response. He felt her excitement and interest in joining him as an ally…then felt it faded as uncertainty began to creep in. She was concerned about something and he had an inkling of what it might be. It was something that he did not see as a problem, but in order to assure her of the fact, he had to first reveal of his breach the night before. He did not want to lose his chance but she deserved to know the truth.

He reached forward and gently took her small hand in his larger one, his eyes on the ring that graced her finger. "Orwell, there is something I need to tell you...something that I need to apologize for." He began softly. A slight smile graced his lips as her confusion at his statement slowly changed to realization. Of course she would have figured it out. She lowered her head, shielding her face behind a curtain of dark curls.

"You apologized last night." She whispered quietly as her face paled beneath the calm exterior she was attempting to portray. "What did you see?"

He felt her fear…not fear of him and what he could do. No…she was afraid that he would reject her after learning the secret she had kept buried for so long. Davis raised his eyes as he attempted to project a soothing assurance toward her. He gently brushed the loose curtain of hair from her face and placed his fingers beneath her chin, coaxing her to raise her head. She slowly raised her eyes to meet his as he replied.

"I saw a good person who is trying too hard to atone for sins that are not hers." He said softly. "You may share his DNA but you do not share the darkness that dwells inside him."

She closed her eyes against the tears that threatened to fall and he released her, allowing her space as she processed his words and the meaning behind them. Davis let out a slow controlled breath as he turned his attention outward over the rolling grassy fields of the park. Anger simmered deep within him at the man who had scarred her. He did not know much about her past as he had refrained from running what he knew through his powerful search engines the night before. He did know that Peter Fleming was a widower who had lost his wife roughly twenty years ago in a strange 'accident'. A small footnote had mentioned one child, who seemed to have vanished of the face of the earth after her mother's death…and now here she was, a grown woman who had made it her sole life's mission to bring down the man who had sired her – for lack of a better term – and expose his corporation for what it truly was.

He turned to face her as she drew a breath and let it out slowly. She met his eyes steadily, relaxing slightly as she found nothing but acceptance in his soft gaze. "How do you know I don't have the same darkness within me?" she asked softly.

A soft smile tweaked the corner of his lips as if in response to an inside joke as he replied. "I know."

She smiled despite the seriousness and cast a quick glance at the ring on her hand. "And you are still willing to have a daughter of a crime lord as an ally?"

"No." Davis continued quickly as her smile fell slightly. "I would like the mysterious and the incredibly dedicated Orwell, guardian of Palm City, to be my ally."

She let out a soft laugh and nodded. The meeting his eyes, she held out her hand. "I would be honored, Shadow."

Davis took her hand in his and gave it a firm shake, sealing the promise. "As am I..Jamie."

He held her hand securely as she stiffened slightly at her name, then he raised her hand to his lips and gently pressed a kiss to her fingers below the ring. He smirked slightly over her knuckles as his eyes met hers. Before she could reply, a soft tune began to play from his pocket. He released her hand with a sigh and retrieved his phone from his pocket. A message from his pilot. The plane was ready and waiting his arrival. As much as he preferred to remain in this place at this time with the woman seated beside him, he still had a mission to complete.

"Duty calls?" Orwell asked softly.

He nodded slowly. "Duty calls."

He stood slowly and turned to face her. A warm smile crossed his lips as she raised a hand and he let out a soft laugh as he pulled her up off the ledge and into his arms, hugging her close. After a long moment, he released her reluctantly. She smiled up at him and he felt hope as he sensed her reluctance to let him leave.

"Will I hear from you again soon?" she asked, as her smile reflected his.

Davis nodded slowly as his grin softened. "Count on it."

His eyes flicked upward over her shoulder as he sensed Vince's hard gaze. A smirk spread across his face as turned back to Orwell and swiftly bent down and brushed a kiss to her cheek. "Count on it." He repeated before straightening and tossed a sloppy salute in Vince's direction as he turned and strode away, laughing all the way.

_Author's Note: And we finally reach the end…at least for this tale. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. A sequel may be in the future – though not for a while. Thank you for the many reviews from both Shadow and Cape fans – I tried to do them both justice and value your feedback. Thank you all for following this story to its conclusion. Sincerely, Red Fedora_


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